


Save it for a Rainy Day

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete.  Aramis centred and whump heavy.  </p>
<p>Aramis arrives at the Bonacieux home late one night during a storm; soaking wet and disoriented.  While his brothers try to figure out what happened and why, Aramis finds himself dealing with a different problem... his body is betraying him, and he questions whether or not he can still have a future with the Musketeers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author’s Note-** Thanks to JenF for beta reading this story, my typos and sentence structure greatly appreciated your assistance.  Also, all rights, and some of the lefts, are owned by the BBC… or the Estate of Alexandre Dumas… not exactly sure.  Maybe they share?

* * *

 

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

by DeadshotMusketeer

 

_“This morning I realized, it’s just what I was born to do… to risk everything, put it all on the line. How else do I know I’m truly alive.”_

\- Aramis (2.5 The Return)

 

It took a moment for d’Artagnan to realize the shaking was not part of his dream, but rather, Constance trying to wake him. He sat up and looked at her as he ran a hand down his face to clear away the remnants of sleep.  “What is it?  Are you all right?” Branched lightening tore across the night sky, creating flashes of white light in the Bonacieux bedroom and illuminating Constance as she looked down at him, pale and panicked. D’Artagnan put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Constance, what?”

“The door,” she whispered urgently, her answer punctuated by a bang clearly coming from downstairs.

 D’Artagnan threw back the covers and was on his feet in moments.  Dressed in only his braies, he pulled his sword from its sheath where it hung on a nearby chair, approached the doorway to the bedroom and peered down to the front door. 

 Lightening lit up the house again, but this time it was accompanied by a distant rumble so Constance wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before making her way to join him. D’Artagnan turned back with a finger pressed to his pursed lips.  “Shh,” he said. “I’ll check this out. You stay here.”

 Constance nodded, but the slight incline of her body indicated she probably wouldn’t stay still for long.

 Thunder rolled in the distance and heavy rain thrashed down on the roof, but the banging at the door could be heard clearly, and it drew d’Artagnan’s attention back down the stairs. His right hand brandishing his sword, he crept toward the door.  The banging had stopped by the time he arrived, so he opened the eyelet and peered outside.

 The darkness of night gave way only when the lightening struck, illuminating an avalanche of rain and streams of mud branching around the well in the center of the square, but no one was out there. 

A thud below him made him rise on his toes and look down.  He saw a man hunched over in both dark clothes and hat, and he noticed a stretch of peacock blue wrapped around the man’s waist.  D’Artagnan dropped from his toes, rested his sword against the wall, and quickly undid the locks.

“Who is it?”

He turned back to see Constance standing halfway down the stairs craning her neck to see past him.  “It’s Aramis,” he said, as he opened the door.

The older musketeer was doubled over, leaning low and cumbersomely against the doorframe.   He mumbled something that d’Artagnan could not hear clearly over the driving rain as it smacked against the sloppy soil and cobblestone buildings.  He bent down to help his friend up when Aramis toppled forward. D’Artagnan caught him and half carried, half dragged him into the hallway and up the stairs, but he was soaking wet, which made the young musketeer’s job very arduous.

“Get a chair,” d’Artagnan called up to Constance.

She backed into the main living area and pulled out the closest chair from the table, then she began to light the lanterns about the room.  “Is he drunk?” she asked, mild disdain in her voice.  

“Not usually his style,” replied d’Artagnan, as he struggled into the room with his friend, “but not completely out of the question.”

Aramis kept stumbling and trying to grab furniture, so it was with great difficulty d’Artagnan finally got his friend settled in the chair.  Now also wet, d’Artagnan stepped back to catch his breath, shake himself off and get a better look at his friend.

Aramis was straining to keep his eyes open and his head upright, and with nearly no apparent strength to lift his own arms, he sat slouched in the chair amassing a rather large pool of rainwater underneath him as it dripped from his waterlogged clothes.  

Constance crossed her arms and huffed out a breath.  “He is drunk,” she declared.  

“Maybe so,” replied d’Artagnan, reaching for a towel on the table behind him. He crouched at his friend’s knees and began cleaning him up, using one arm to hold his friend in the chair. “But even if he is, he’s our friend and we should help.”

Constance grumbled to herself as she turned to start a fire in the hearth behind her. Since hearing Aramis was the true father of the dauphin, she’d felt a certain animosity toward him, and the fact that she had to hide this knowledge only compounded her frustration with him even more. “I wasn’t suggesting we shouldn’t help,” she muttered, unable to contain her slight ire.  “I’m just saying it’s the middle of the bloody night. Why did he have to come here?” When the fire began to take hold, she turned back and saw d’Artagnan examining the towel, a worried frown creasing his young features.  She looked immediately at Aramis and noticed he was pale, shivering and couldn’t swallow without grimacing.  “He’s not drunk, is he?” she asked.

“There’s blood,” d’Artagnan said, eyes wide as he glanced up at her.  He reached a hand out to the musketeer’s cheek. It was cold, and there was no reaction to his touch.  D’Artagnan gave him a gentle slap, and Aramis’ eyes burst open.  They darted about the room unfocused as he began to cough and pant.

D’Artagnan’s concern heightened to near panic and he began removing his friend’s wet clothing. “Grab a blanket,” he instructed.   When the request was fulfilled, he threw it before the fire to gather warmth.  “Talk to me, Aramis,” he said, as he fumbled with the sash and belts around his waist- noting with a frown the absence of weapons.  “What happened?  Are you hurt?”

“Whatever happened, you’re safe now,” added Constance.

It wasn’t until he was down to his bare chest and braies that Aramis spoke for the first time. He clutched his arms tightly around his chest as if the act alone could abate the tremors taking over his body.

“Don’t know exactly,” he said, between chattering teeth.  “Cold.  Tired.”

Constance retrieved the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.  He grabbed the ends and pulled it tighter around his body. When she pulled her hands back she noticed her left one spotted with blood.  She showed it to d’Artagnan then went to gather some cloth.

D’Artagnan searched his friend and found blood dripping from Aramis’ left hand. Still crouched before him, d’Artagnan gently took Aramis’ hand and lowered it into his lap to clean it. When the blood was cleared, he found a deep, clean-edged gash across the palm.  “This is a knife wound,” he declared.  “Who did this?”

Many seconds passed before Aramis answered.  “Don’t know. Happened so fast. Don’t know where I woke up.” His voice was broken as he tried to communicate his obviously confused thoughts.

“Were you attacked?”

Suddenly, Aramis’ shoulders hunched forward, bringing his torso along with them. His eyes squeezed shut and d’Artagnan sprang from his vulnerable position just in time to avoid the vomit. He put a hand on each of his friend’s shoulders so he wouldn’t fall out of the chair and waited while his friend emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

When Constance returned to the room she stopped abruptly and covered her mouth. After a brief pause, she went to stand behind Aramis, holding him upright in the chair once the retching had stopped.

“Did he say anything?”

D’Artagnan shook his head and fetched his friend some water.  Aramis held the cup gingerly, took a few sips and then spat the contents onto the floor with a grimace. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Can’t swallow.”

Constance wrapped an arm around his head and laid her hand across his brow.

“You have no need to apologize, Aramis.  But we need to know what happened.  Where do you hurt?”

“And what brought you here?” asked d’Artagnan, as he threw some of Monsieur Bonacieux’s old cloth samples over the mess on the floor. 

There was an obvious grimace as Aramis swallowed. 

“I _was_ attacked,” he said afterward, a creeping awareness evident in his voice.  “Don’t know why… or why I came here… thought I was going to the garrison.” Again, his chattering and unsteadying breaths crippled his sentences.

D’Artagnan noticed Aramis’ hands had moved to his left hip where he seemed to be applying pressure. “What’s wrong?” he asked, as he bent down before his friend again.

Aramis tensed, and his grip on his hip intensified with as much force as his grimace. “Oh God, it hurts.”

D’Artagnan tried to pry his friend’s hands away for a better look, but Aramis bent forward. “Oh God, it hurts!” he cried again, between clenched teeth.

D’Artagnan stood back and shared a worried glance with Constance.

“We need to get a doctor,” urged Constance.  “And he needs to be lying down.”

“My old room,” suggested the Gascon, reaching to help his friend out of the chair.

Aramis begged for him to stop, but d’Artagnan ignored the plea, and after some shuffling and moaning, he was finally able to get Aramis sitting on the bed. The Spaniard had straightened up a bit, and was only holding his hip with his left hand now, but it was leaving a smear of blood transferred from the open wound on his hand.

D’Artagnan and Constance moved to lower him down, but Aramis waved them off so he could slowly lower himself- obviously needing to control his descent to avoid any unexpected jolts or misplaced hands.  When he was finally down, it was apparent he could neither rest his head back without excruciating pain nor straighten his left leg.  The hisses and language that came from his mouth gave d’Artagnan and Constance a clear indication of how bad his situation was.

D’Artagnan ran into the other bedroom and came back with his arms full of clothes and a pair of boots. “I’m going to the garrison,” he said, slipping into his pants.  “The Captain will know a doctor.  You stay here with Aramis.”

Constance, who had taken vigil on the far side of the bed, nodded with a sad smile.  She looked down at Aramis; he was restless, his face wrenched in pain, and she felt her animosity toward him ebbing away. She picked up his right hand and held it between her own.  It felt so cold and delicate, unlike the man she knew him to be, and it pained her to see him like this.

D’Artagnan went to Aramis and gave his shoulder a squeeze.  “I’ll be right back.  Just hang on.”

Aramis peered at him through half-lidded eyes, his body turned slightly to his right in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain in his injured hip.  “Yes.  Doctor. I heard you.  Bring Treville.”

“Yes, of course,” replied d’Artagnan.  Then he gave Constance a nod and took his leave.

Constance remained holding Aramis’ hand as he continued to squirm and moan on the bed. His movements were minute but the noises they evoked were troubling.  She raked her eyes over his torso and noted the blood from his left hand was spreading across his hip as he applied pressure.  He was also trembling and, although dry, he was still cold and pale.

“There, there, Aramis,” she soothed, brushing back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. “You don’t look very comfortable at all, what can I get you for the pain?”

“Don’t think… help with the pain,” he replied, pausing to swallow carefully around a sharp pain in his throat.  “Blanket might be nice.”

“Of course. My apologies,” she stated, quickly dropping his hand and rising from the bed.   She scurried back into the other room, where thankfully, the fallen blanket had landed in front of the fire.  She held it close to her chest to retain the warmth as she carried it back to Aramis. She spread it over him and carefully tucked him in.  As she looked down at him she felt her heart ache.

His was head turned to the side and he was massaging his forehead with his right hand while his left hand still gripped mercilessly at his hip.  His breathing was very controlled and his eyes were clenched tight.   All Constance could think was that she was glad it wasn’t d’Artagnan.

With a sharp intake of breath she shook the thought from her mind.  To keep it from invading again, she set to work bandaging his left hand. She gathered strips of cloth and a bowl of fresh water then returned to his bedside.  Pushing back the blanket to reveal his left hip, she gently touched the hand that lay upon it.   “I’m sorry,” she said.  “But your hand needs to be tended.”

Aramis nodded slightly, but did not open his eyes.  “Understand. Do as you must.”

Constance smiled and took his hand in hers.  She wasn’t skilled in needlework, but at least she could clean it and help staunch the bleeding with a bandage.  Aramis did not put up much fuss, which made it easier for Constance.  Then, with a newly soaked cloth, and with as much gentleness as she possessed, she started to clean the blood smeared on his hip. This elicited several jerks and twitches from the musketeer- and even a few cursives, but he told her to continue despite his countenance.

Slowly, the blood disappeared from his hip to reveal a very large, very troubling bruise on his lower left side.  Hues of red, black and purple spread across his skin from near his naval, across his hip and around to his back.  It was so ghastly against his pale skin she couldn’t stop the words tumbling from her mouth.

“My god, Aramis. What did they do to you?”

There was a very audible sigh before Aramis spoke.  “I think… I remember a stair case…”

_A sword was swinging at him before he could even drop the smile from his face.  He reached out with his unprotected left hand, grabbed the blade and yanked- both disarming the assailant and slicing his hand at the same time._

_He stepped back and discarded the sword behind him with so much force it bounced off the wall before clanging to the floor. Then he reached for his knife, but before he found purchase he felt a blow to the back of his head so hard his vision turned red.  He stood his ground, refusing to even take a knee and fought the overwhelming urge to crumple to the floor._

_And it was in that moment someone grabbed him from behind, his breath was stolen as arms cinched around his chest and flung him toward the door.  He stumbled, but he didn’t hit the floor, catching himself in the doorframe, but his defiance to go down spurred the men to try harder._

_Two of them attacked simultaneously, hitting Aramis with their shoulders square in the stomach and driving him back. He remembered feeling air rush past him as it took a curiously long time to hit the ground.  When he landed it was on hard, uneven ground, his left hip making painful contact with some sort of angle before sliding further down…_

When Aramis finished recounting his memory, he coughed lightly and then swallowed with great effort.  “Bit hazy after that,” he whispered.  “Sorry.”

“No, no, no, don’t apologize,” hushed Constance.  His eyes were open now, but his brow was creased with memories just out of reach. He looked desperately uncomfortable, so she grabbed some pillows from the wardrobe at the foot of the bed and returned to his side. “Perhaps you should save the rest for Captain Treville,” she said, as she fluffed one of the pillows on her lap.

Then she beckoned for Aramis to sit up and guided him by the shoulders till he was sitting. As she leaned forward to place one of the pillows behind him, she felt his head drop onto her chest just above her right breast.  His head was turned to the door so she could not see his face, and his left hand was gripping her elbow as if begging her not to move away.

It was an intimate position, but it was born of need and comfort: she felt neither compromised nor uncomfortable in any way.  Instead, Constance stopped fussing with the pillows and wrapped her free arm around him as the other one remained trapped in her lap.  He still shivered, so she released him briefly to grab the blanket and threw it back over his shoulders and returned her arm to its embrace.

Neither moved, other than to tighten their hold or rub gently, and as time moved on, Constance felt Aramis relax. She knew he wasn’t asleep by the rhythm of his breathing, but his voice surprised her anyway.

“They said my name,” he murmured, into her arm.  “I heard them say my name.”

Constance felt her stomach drop.  Thoughts of the Queen and dauphin rushed forward from her subconscious where she’d being trying to restrain them, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the attack had something to do with them.  But Aramis was in no state for discourse, so she moved her hand to the back of his neck and sighed deeply. “It’ll be all right, Aramis,” she said, anxiously, looking out the window as the rain continued to beat against the glass.  “Your friends will know what to do.”

 

**To be Continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**II.**

 

Sopping wet, and with much urgency, d’Artagnan led his fellow musketeers to the back bedroom of the house, but right before entering he was shoved aside as Porthos pushed past him.

Constance still had Aramis embraced in her arms when they entered.  “I think he’s finally asleep,” she whispered, her tone bringing them all to a halt.

“I’m awake,” murmured Aramis, removing himself slowly from her grasp.

Porthos moved forward and arrived at Aramis’ bedside just in time to help Constance lower him the last few inches to the pillows.  Aramis leaned again to favor his left side, and the throbbing in his head had subsided a little now that he was semi-sitting.  It also helped relieve the congestion in his lungs, making it easier to breathe deeply without fear of igniting a coughing spell.

“You look terrible,” Porthos blurted out, staring down at his friend.  “How’d this happen?  Who did this to you?  I’ll kill ‘em.”

Athos approached the foot of the bed and took off his rain-drenched hat.  “One question at a time,” he said to Porthos. Then he rested his gaze on Aramis. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be better,” quipped the Spaniard.  “Yourself?”

Athos tensed his jaw. “This is serious, Aramis.”

“I know,” replied the Spaniard, having to close his eyes as he spoke just to work past the pain in his throat. “I know.”

After sharing a worried glance with Athos, Porthos sat on the bed.  “Treville is getting the doctor,” he said, as he reached for the blanket and pulled it back.  “Let us have a look at you in the meantime.”

Once their friend’s injuries were laid bare, there was only one comment amidst the silent gawking.

“Oh, my God, Aramis.”

The words were spoken by the usually unflappable Athos, which made them all the more devastating.

The bruise, on and around, his left hip, was garish and made of hues not meant to be seen on human skin.

“His hand has been slashed as well,” pointed out d’Artagnan, who had come to stand behind his lover.

Constance patted the hand d’Artagnan laid on her shoulder.  “There’s also a rather large bump just above his neck.”

Porthos pushed aside the hair at the back of Aramis’ head and pressed gently.  This elicited a groan from his friend that made Porthos quickly retract his hand. “Where is that doctor?” he growled.

“I’ll be fine,” Aramis said, having to pause and concentrate on swallowing and abate the stirring deep in his lungs.  “I will survive till he gets here.  Just please don’t shout anymore.”

Porthos frowned and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.   Then he let loose a broad, toothy grin. “Of course you’ll be fine,” he said, with a stout nod.  “We’re here now.” He turned away to hide his pained expression, and also his shame for possibly having just lied to his friend.

“Appreciate the kind words,” Aramis replied with a small laugh.  Then he closed his eyes as a small cough escaped from inside his chest. He continued to concentrate on his breathing- anything too deep would rattle his lungs, and a violent cough was the last thing he wanted to inflict upon his throat.

“In the meantime, let’s make you more comfortable,” Porthos said, as he rose from the bed and laid a hand on Aramis’ knee.

“Don’t…!” Constance’s warning was drowned out by a blood-curdling scream.  Aramis arched his back, grabbing his hip in frantic need to stop the pain as he turned and buried his head into the pillows to stifle his wailing.

Porthos jumped back.

Athos spun to face the wall.

D’Artagnan looked as if he were going to retch.

“… touch his leg!” Constance finished, anxiously rushing forward to settle Aramis.  

“What the hell is going on?”

Everyone, but Aramis, turned to see a drenched and horror-struck Treville standing in the bedroom doorway.  And just behind him stood an unfamiliar face clutching a bag to his chest. 

Not waiting for an answer, the Captain stormed up to the bed, pushed Porthos aside and leaned over to take stock of Aramis’ condition.  The young marksman did not look capable of speech, so Treville softened his stance and directed his question to Constance instead.  “How bad is it?”

Constance shook her head as she got up and backed away from the bed.  She took solace in d’Artagnan’s arms before speaking. “His left side,” she said, pointing at his hip.

Treville looked down the length of the musketeer’s body, taking an involuntary step back when he saw the bruise.  After a pause, he pointed a taut finger at the stranger in the doorway. 

“You,” he demanded. “Fix him.” 

Then he stepped back out of the room, pulling Porthos along with him.  Athos and d’Artagnan, with Constance in tow, followed them both out through the door and into the other room.

Aramis was only vaguely aware of their departure, his mind full of pleading prayers to make the pain stop.  It ripped through him from his hip to his foot and even across his abdomen and deep into his back. He could not let go of his hold on his hip, or his hand from his forehead as he pressed his fingers into his skull to numb the pain and pounding.   As he tried to breathe through it, deep and slow, he felt his lungs burning and his throat stinging.  Aramis had been shot, stabbed and sliced many times in his life, but never had he felt this level of pain. 

“It’s all right, son,” said a voice above him.  “Let me take a look.”

Aramis did not recognize the voice and didn’t much care to pay it any mind, but a hand on his arm pulling him onto his back gave him no choice.  He was rolled over so he was flat, making his lungs burn further and the pain across his abdomen deepen.  It was so intense, his stomach began to roil in protest and he felt bile rising quickly up his throat. 

“Breathe, son,” the voice said again. 

Aramis felt something press lightly against his chest as a hand came to rest on his forehead. The touch settled him enough to quell his nausea and open his eyes.  He saw a man with dark hair leaning over him and a moment later the man raised his head and looked down at him with a worrisome frown.

“Physician?” asked Aramis, blinking up at him from under the hand still resting on his forehead.

“Yes,” the man replied, pulling his hand back.  Then he began rifling through the medical bag on his lap.  “No fever… But you are still cold… Most likely come about later. Let’s see about that pain…”

As Aramis listened to the doctor rambling to himself, he tried to sit himself up further on the bed in anticipation of having to drink something.  He let go of his hip reluctantly and braced his hands on the mattress on either side of his body and gave himself a gentle push back. An excruciating pain exploded in his hip, and he had to bite his lower lip to contain the groan working it’s way out his mouth.  Once up, his chest began to settle again and his head didn’t throb as much.  He could keep his eyes open now without too much difficulty, and looked about the room.  It was only the doctor with him, so he assumed the others had retreated into the other room. He could hear their muted voices, and it comforted him to know they were close, but they could not heal what ailed him.

Outside, a distant roll of thunder could be heard over the rain hitting hard against the window. Aramis turned his head slowly, drawn to the chaotic sound of thousands of tiny droplets pelting the glass.  Thunder boomed again, followed immediately by streaks of white lightening, and the window shook and rattled. He envied the storm and it’s ability to unleash its fury without restriction.  Aramis was angry, but his body would not allow him to fight. Instead, it forced him to bed and to a place in his mind he never liked to visit- a place of uncertainty, fear and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut as his hip suddenly spasmed and his nausea returned.

The doctor looked to Aramis just in time to see his body start shivering.  “You need to be warmed up,” stated the doctor. “But first, drink this.”

The doctor cradled Aramis’ head in one hand while holding a small vial in the other and pressed it to his lips.

The instant the liquid entered his mouth his body rejected it and he spat it out all over himself and the doctor’s hand.  Quickly after that, Aramis’ stomach let loose what little contents it contained and he retched painfully as acidic bile rushed upward past his raw throat. When the doctor released his head to fetch something to clean them both with, Aramis let his head loll to the side with a whimper.  There would be nothing for the pain if he could not keep anything down, and he most certainly did not want to relive the ripping pain in his throat in order to try again.

Once the doctor had cleaned everything up, he sat back on the edge of the bed and began palpating the marksman’s bruised hip.  “Do you remember what happened?” he asked. 

Aramis could not understand how this man thought him capable of speech while he was inflicting that amount of pain to his hip, so instead of answering, he merely shook his head.

When the doctor was done with his physical exam of the musketeer’s lower left side, he sat back with a grim expression.  “I hear you have some medical knowledge,” he said, with a slightly questioning tone.

“Yes,” whispered Aramis.

“Am I to assume you already know?”

Aramis nodded, his eyes clenched tight as his suspicions were confirmed. He’d known once he’d laid down what the cause of his pain was, he just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

“Can you fix it?” he asked, slowly with as much determination as he could muster.

The doctor laid a hand on his arm and nodded gently.  “With help, I’m quite certain.  But if anything goes wrong…”

Aramis looked at him sharply.  “Nothing will go wrong, and we will not discuss this further.”

The doctor nodded solemnly. “We will have to eventually.”

Aramis glared at him so the doctor abruptly changed topics.  “You are quite chilled,” he said, reaching a hand under the blanket to feel his torso.  “How long were you out in this dreadful storm?”

“Long enough,” whispered Aramis, grimacing as he contained his cough with a painful swallow.

The doctor drew in a deep breath as he retracted his hand.  “On top of everything, you may be coming down with influenza. Let me see that throat of yours.”

Aramis parted his lips but could not open his mouth wide enough for the doctor to see anything, so the doctor tugged down on his chin.  The entire time the doctor spent looking into his mouth, Aramis fought back tears welling in the corners of his eyes.  It felt as though someone was jabbing a needle into the back of his throat and he could feel it all the way to his ears and up behind his eyes. When the doctor finally released him, he braced both his hands around his neck and tried to squeeze the pain into submission.  It subsided a little, and he was able to remove his hands and let them rest back on the bed.

“Quite inflamed,” the doctor observed.  “Give it some time, and a little honey and it should calm down.  I want to look at your hand, but first, let’s get you warm.” The doctor got up and started rummaging through drawers and chests and when he’d found something suitable he returned to the bed.  “Blankets are all well and good,” he said.  “But nothing retains heat better than a fresh set of clothes.”  The doctor carefully maneuvered a loose shirt over Aramis, followed by a heavy knitted sweater.  “You should be feeling cozy in no time.  Now, let’s look at your hand.”

As the bandage on his left hand was unwound, Aramis considered his predicament. His left leg was no longer attached properly to his body, his hand was sliced open and he could already feel his fingers getting stiff.  Both injuries could be easily fixed, but their ramifications could not.

He was greatly unsettled by the thought that he might not be the same after this; riding and running, perhaps even simple walking could become difficult if things did not heal well.  And he did not want his brothers, or Captain Treville, knowing this any more than he wanted to know himself.

To this day, Aramis still felt the same excitement and thrill riding into battle as he had that first time years ago when he was a young recruit.  The memory of his first day as a true musketeer brought a smile to his face, despite the doctor prodding at his sliced open hand. His heart accelerated, his muscles twitched and he could feel adrenaline coursing through him, mimicking the exhilaration he’d felt his first time in battle.

He remembered drawing his pistol and feeling a rush as he squeezed the trigger and let loose a kill shot, then drawing his sword to attack another opponent with a grin on his face as he felt himself come alive with both fear and anticipatory glee.

Resounding thunder, not too far in the distance, broke him from his nostalgia and his reality came crushing down on him as he looked at his hip. 

It wasn’t just slightly separated, it was completely out of its joint, and it would take nearly twice the force it took to dislocate it to put it back in.

But Aramis could face it head-on, albeit with fear, but also with support.  His brothers were in the other room and he knew they would not let him go through this alone.  He smiled despite his fear and anxiety, and set his mind to do whatever was necessary to make sure he could ride again into battle with the musketeers.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

“I want to know everything,” Treville ordered, ripping the hat from his head and shaking out the rain. “I want to know why that sound just came out of one of my musketeers!  Which, coincidentally, I don’t ever want to hear again. And please, start at the beginning.”

Porthos and Athos looked immediately at d’Artagnan who in turn looked directly at Constance.

She stepped forward and relayed everything she knew.  By the time she was done, Treville’s anger had melted away, and he was now standing in the doorway that led to his injured musketeer. 

“Aramis said they used his name?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

Constance nodded.

Athos went to his captain, also feeling the need to keep vigil over Aramis. “This suggests the attackers knew him in some regard.  So we can assume this was a targeted attack.”

“I concur,” replied Treville.

“Who would do this?” asked Porthos.

“Come on,” huffed Treville. “This _is_ Aramis were talking about.  One mustn’t look too far to find a jealous husband.”

“No,” stated Athos. “One does not attack with such proclivity over a simple affair.  We must look elsewhere for a cause.”  His eyes suggested there was something else he wanted to say, but he kept silent. A theory plagued the very core of his being, but he wouldn’t discuss it until he and Aramis were alone.

Treville knew better than to question Athos when he had that look in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “And I’m sorry to have jumped to such a base conclusion.”

“So we’re starting at the beginning then, yeah?” asked Porthos, stepping toward the crowded doorway.

Athos looked at him. “Indeed we are.”

“No mind,” smiled Porthos, taking a spot next to Athos.  “I’ll search to the ends of the Earth to find whom ever did this to him. It doesn’t matter where we start, cause I know where it will finish.”

Constance stood back from the musketeers and watched as they watched their friend. After a moment, she released d’Artagnan’s hand to allow him to join his brothers in vigil, and sat at the table. The excitement of the evening was finally taking its toll and the exhaustion was overwhelming her. It seemed like just minutes ago she had been laying peacefully in d’Artagnan’s arms- with not a care in the world.

She couldn’t completely dismiss her disappointment or displeasure with Aramis over what happened with the Queen, but if this were some form of punishment, she felt it certainly did not fit the crime.  She wanted to say something, maybe suggest where to start looking for the culprit, but there wasn’t a single person in the room in whom she could confide.   She glanced at d’Artagnan and wished with all her heart she could talk to him, but betrayal was not, and never would be, on her to-do list.  Not to the Queen.  And not to the dauphin.

Soft whispering at the bedroom door interrupted her inner turmoil.  The doctor was talking to the musketeers, and by the looks on their faces the news was not good.  She decided to stay where she was and allow the men some privacy.

“I’m going to need some assistance,” the doctor was saying, as he scrutinized the four men. Deciding on the man who appeared to be the strongest, he pulled Porthos into the room first.

The larger musketeer noticed Aramis was sitting up now, but his knee was still bent upward, and he was also wearing a clean shirt and a dark, heavy knit sweater. He almost looked normal if not for the tight line of his mouth and the death hold he had of the sheets.

“Take off your weapons and doublet,” ordered the doctor, not giving Porthos the chance to speak with his friend.  But he did as he was told without complaint, knowing that whatever the doctor wanted was in Aramis’ best interest.  He passed his doublet and weapons to Athos who put them on the floor, then approached the bed. Aramis looked up at him, still grimacing and writhing.  Porthos didn’t know what to say, so fortunately the doctor’s next order gave him something to do.

“Climb in behind him, let him rest his back against your chest.  He’ll need your strength.”

Porthos looked at the doctor sharply, but Aramis’ pained voice quickly drew his attention back to the bed.

“Just do as he says,” instructed Aramis, through gritted teeth.  “The movement can’t possibly hurt me more than sitting like this.”

Porthos nodded and began a slow climb onto the bed.  He stretched his legs out on either side of his friend- whose hands found new purchase on his thighs. Porthos paid no mind to them digging into his muscles for he would do anything, and endure anything, for his friend.

“How you doing?” he finally asked, putting a hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

Between controlled breaths, Aramis replied, “I’m coping.  But promise me something, dear friend?”

“Anything.”

“When this happens, please don’t let go.”  He paused to catch his breath and tide the cough building in his chest.  “No matter how much I beg you.”

Porthos moved his hand to his friend’s forehead and pulled back to rest his head on his chest. He leaned down and whispered into his ear.  “I’ll never let you go, Aramis.”

At that, the pained and wounded musketeer nodded his head ever so gently.

With the two settled, the doctor chose Athos from the remaining group and placed him at the foot of the bed.  He then took the older musketeer’s hands and wrapped them around Aramis’ ankle.

Athos allowed his hands to be guided, although with some trepidation of what was to come. He stared up the bed hoping to find and draw reassurance from Porthos, but Porthos merely shrugged back, clearly as hesitant as he.

Aramis did not miss their silent conversation.  “Don’t worry, boys,” he hissed, still struggling to maintain composure through the pain. “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it’s going to hurt you.  A lot more.”

Porthos’ head fell back against the wall.  “Oh, see, why’d you have to go and say that?  Now I’m officially worried.”

Aramis laughed quietly, despite the situation.  “Just remember that old adage,” he said.  “All for one…”

“... And one for all,” finished d’Artagnan, stepping to the bed to rest a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

Athos smiled with pride. There wasn’t anything these men wouldn’t do for each other, and this unfortunate moment was a true testament of their dedication to each other.   Athos could not imagine life without any of them by his side.  One day, he knew deep down, he would have the fortitude to tell these men that, but today, and most definitely now, was not the appropriate time. 

The doctor took up position on Aramis’ left side and placed one hand on his knee and his other under his thigh. “If we’re ready, I’d like to begin.” He looked to each of his assistants – who nodded their reply, then locked his questioning gaze on Aramis. “Are you ready?”

“One moment,” replied the Spaniard, pushing himself deeper into Porthos’ chest. Then he looked up to d’Artagnan. “Please apologize to Constance for how I’m about to behave.  No woman should have to endure the profanity that will most likely escape my lips.”

D’Artagnan nodded with a smile.  “I’m sure she will forgive you, given the circumstances.”

“You have no idea what’s about to come out of my mouth,” replied Aramis.  Then, after a few courage-building breaths, Aramis gave the doctor permission to proceed.

“I’m going to straighten the leg first,” instructed the doctor.  Then he directed his attention specifically on Porthos. “Wrap your arms around his chest, hold tight, and don’t let him move.” 

The musketeer did as he was told and Aramis adjusted his grip to grab each of Porthos’ shoulders behind him.

Then the doctor turned to the end of the bed.  “And you, Athos is it?”  Athos nodded, his mouth set in a grim line of determination as if he just wanted this over with. “Try not to let our patient pull his leg back up.  Use some force if need be, but try and be as gentle as possible.”

Again, Athos nodded as he worked his hands around Aramis’ ankle to secure his grip. His hands were beginning to sweat and he feared his grip would not suffice.

“Here we go,” informed the doctor, and then he began the slow process of pushing down Aramis’ knee while simultaneously urging his leg forward.

Aramis had not been wrong about his reaction.  The curses, in both French and Spanish, flowed freely between screams and groans as his leg was painfully lowered to rest flat on the bed.

The doctor instructed both Porthos and Athos to retain their holds until Aramis settled down. It took several gut wrenching moments before he did, and then, and only then, did they release their grips.

Afterward, Athos fell back against the wall and let his head drop into his hands. He scrubbed his face several times before he could present his stoicism once again.

D’Artagnan had started pacing between the bed and their captain, one hand on his hip, the other unable to stop itself from combing through his hair.

Treville remained still, but his shoulders were hunched and his eyes closed.

Porthos, on the other hand, was vigorously rubbing both of Aramis’ arms, a relaxed smile on his face. “You did good, Aramis,” he said. “You did good.”

Aramis was placid in his arms, his head having lolled to the side and away from everyone’s view. Porthos could feel his lungs expand and contract against his own chest and it gave the musketeer some solace. Slowly, Porthos put a hand to Aramis forehead, but drew it back quickly when he felt moisture. “Pass me something,” he called. Within seconds Treville had placed a towel in his outstretched hand.

Porthos took the towel and wiped the cold seat from his friend’s brow.  “It’s all over now.  Rest. I don’t plan on letting go for awhile.” He continued to dab gently at Aramis’ face and brow while issuing soothing words of encouragement. It wasn’t until he heard a gentle cough to his left that he turned his attention elsewhere.

It was d’Artagnan who had coughed, but everyone in the room was staring at him with cautious apprehension.

Suddenly Porthos dropped his head back against the wall with a thud and rocked it slowly back and forth. “You said that was the first part, didn’t you?” he asked the doctor.  Then he righted his head and found that everyone was still staring at him. Porthos swallowed thickly and the voice that followed was troubled at best.  “What’s the second part, then?”

The doctor cleared his throat.  “We put the hip back into place,” he stated.  “And pray we get it in on the first try.”

Porthos tensed and held his friend tighter to his chest.  “No,” he breathed.  “Not going to happen. We can’t do that to him now. It’ll kill ‘im.”

Aramis tightened his grip on his friend’s shoulders.  “Don’t worry, friend,” he said, looking up at him.  “I won’t let you go.”

 

**To be Continued…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

 

 

“It must be done now,” explained the doctor, with much intended urgency. “We cannot allow the tendons and muscles to take purchase in this position.  It has already been in this state too long.”

“I don’t like this, Captain,” rumbled Porthos.  “Are we sure he’s even a real doctor?”

Treville stepped to the side of the bed and rested a hand on the wall for support as he leaned down. “Porthos, please. Let the man do his job and take care of Aramis.”

Porthos shied away with Aramis protectively cradled in his arms.  “We do just fine taking care of our own,” he stated. “You just tell the executioner over there, he ain’t laying another finger on Aramis.”

“I trust him, Porthos,” said a small voice.

The larger musketeer looked down at his friend.  “He’s talking non-sense, Aramis.  You need to rest.  You need to build your strength back up before anyone tries yanking your leg near off. Hell, he hasn’t even given you anything for the pain.”

The doctor shifted nervously beside the bed, but remained quiet.

“He tried,” explained Aramis, pushing himself up further in Porthos’ lap.  “Couldn’t keep it down.  And it hurts too much to swallow anything right now. “

“Oh, ‘Mis. I’m sorry,” Porthos said. “I didn’t know.”

“Just let the doctor finish. Has to be done. I can’t take this pain much longer.” Aramis punctuated his statement with a painful cough as he tried to shift his position again.

Porthos looked contemplative for a few moments.  “Well, if ‘Mis trusts you, then I guess I can trust you,” he finally said.

“And if it’s any consolation,” stated Athos from the foot of the bed,  “I’m willing to offer my services and simply knock you out.”

This brought a smile to the faces of the musketeers, but to the doctor it only evoked shock. “He has a head wound,” he declared. “There will be no knocking about of his head… or anyone’s head for that matter.”  He directed the last statement clearly at Porthos.  “Now, I suggest we proceed without further delay.”

The doctor returned Athos’ hands to Aramis’ ankle, but this time he remained beside him with his own hands further up the leg.  “You hold tight,” he said to Porthos.  “We shall have to use considerable force to get his hip back into alignment.”

Porthos faithfully anchored his friend to his chest and felt the grip on his shoulders tighten. Gulping down the nausea welling in his stomach, Porthos nodded back at the doctor.  “We’re ready.”

“On my count then,” continued the doctor.  “You hold him still while we pull the leg.”

Athos gave the doctor a curt nod and readied himself, despite his unease.  Before the doctor had a chance to start, d’Artagnan resumed his place beside Porthos with his hand on his shoulder.

Now they were ready to begin.

The doctor counted down from three, and with each number, Porthos could feel Aramis prepare for the inevitable by relaxing into his chest.  Unfortunately, when the doctor and Athos yanked hard on his leg, and Porthos held tight, Aramis braced.

The earlier cursives and screams were nothing compared to what came out of Aramis’ this time. He grabbed Porthos’ shoulders so hard he nearly dislocated them, and his breathing increased to such an alarming rate, Porthos thought he would stop all together. 

Everyone waited for Aramis to stabilize.  They saw him close his eyes, attempting to restrain the tears pooling at the edges of his lashes, and they knew something was drastically wrong.

“’Mis? ‘Mis?  Are you all right?” asked Porthos, clutching at his friend’s heaving chest.

“No,” was the only word Aramis could muster, and it came out shrill, encapsulated with pain and frustration.

The doctor rushed to his side and began groping his bruised hip.  After a moment, and several terrifying groans from the patient, the doctor’s head shot up.  “It didn’t go in.”

“No it didn’t!” screamed Aramis, now writhing within his friend’s embrace.

From the foot of the bed, Athos shared a questioning look with both d’Artagnan and Porthos. They could not stand to watch their friend suffer any longer and together they knew they had to take it upon themselves to get it over with.  His intentions may have been sound, but the doctor was moving much too slowly for their liking and Aramis was paying a heavy price.  So without warning, without a word to even Aramis, they decided to take care of themselves.

Porthos buried his head into the Spaniard’s shoulder and held on with all his might. D’Artagnan joined Athos at the foot of the bed, and together, they yanked their friend’s leg with everything they had.

Aramis screamed as his body went rigid, frozen in pain and gripped in a seemingly endless contraction of agony.  Then suddenly he exhaled and went limp in Porthos’ arms.

The doctor, terror-stricken by the musketeer’s audacity, finally shook himself and began palpating Aramis’ hip once again.  After a very long, tremulous moment, he looked up.  “It’s in.”

Athos quickly dropped himself with abandon onto the corner of the bed.  He settled his head into one hand while the other reached back and grabbed Aramis’ ankle.  Athos looked as though he might never let go again.

Treville had also dropped into a chair and was holding his head in his hands, shoulders slumped in relief as he peered at Aramis over the tips of his fingers.

D’Artagnan was on the floor with his back to the bed, his knees bent up and his right arm stretched alongside Aramis’ leg.

The three friends needed to keep contact with their fourth.  Especially Porthos who was cradling Aramis between his arms and gently rocking side to side.

Aramis was asleep, or unconscious, no one knew for sure and no one was willing to wake him up to ask.  He was finally still, at peace, and not in any pain.  Of course they knew that would change when he woke, so they decided to leave him be till he chose to join the waking world on his own.

“I think our patient could use some rest,” sighed the doctor.  “I suggest we retire to the other room, we wouldn’t want to disturb him now that he’s quieted.”

Porthos growled as he held his friend close.  “I’m good right where I am.”

“Me to,” stated d’Artagnan.

Athos merely glared at him. 

The doctor nodded his understanding, then promptly took his leave.

After a moment of silence, d’Artagnan let out a quiet moan.  “Constance,” he sighed.

“Stay where you are, son,” Treville ordered, as he moved from his chair.  “I will tend to her, as well as the doctor.”

D’Artagnan barely had enough time to nod his thanks before Treville disappeared into the other room.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

Treville found Constance near the window at the far side of the room.  He stepped loudly so his approach would not startle her, for she seemed quite unsettled as she bustled about in what appeared to be busy work.

Suddenly she stopped and turned, catching Treville by surprise.  “He’s all good now, right?”

Treville sensed her anxiety, despite the smile on her face.  “The worst of it is over, I presume,” he replied carefully, turning to the doctor for confirmation.

He was sitting at the table pulling vials and small sacks from his medical bag. He was about to say something to the contrary, but Treville’s leveled glare strongly suggested he reconsider. “Ah yes,” he finally replied. “Our brave Musketeer should be strong and mobile very shortly.”

Treville nodded a private thank-you to the doctor, then turned back to Constance. “We’ll make arrangements to have him transferred to the garrison immediately,” he informed her.

“Oh, well, if you think that’s right,” she said, her voice betraying her conviction. “By all means, do what is best.”

She had stopped talking, but Treville sensed she wasn’t quite finished, so he waited patiently for her to continue.

“But of course,” she drawled, taking a jar from the mantle and switching it for another of the same size and color.  “The move could be rather daunting for Aramis…”  She let her words trail off suggestively.

Treville smiled knowingly as he did the same.  “If you think it better he…”

A day or so ago, she couldn’t imagine being around Aramis and not wanting to slap him over this mess with the queen, so she surprised even herself when she spoke her next words. “Then it’s settled,” she declared, brushing her hands down the front of her shawl.   “Aramis will stay in d’Artagnan’s old room till he is fit to leave on his own accord.”

Treville smiled. Moving Aramis sooner rather than later might have been troublesome, but he surmised that wasn’t the only reason for Constance’ invitation.  There were only a few, good, honest, women left in Pairs, as far as Treville was concerned, but d’Artagnan had certainly found one of them.  “Of course you will be handsomely compensated for the inconvenience,” he finally said.

There was no doubt in either’s mind that she was doing this purely out of the kindness of her heart, but Constance couldn’t deny the offer.  “I appreciate it, thank-you,” she said.  “Now, can I offer you and your men something to eat? I have some broth heating on the fire if you’re interested.”

“That would be most appreciated,” replied Treville, with a slight incline of his head. He looked back at the door to where his men still resided, and then amended his statement.  “Perhaps for myself and the good doctor only. Against my better judgment, I don’t think broth will be enough to entice my men away from Aramis quite yet.”

Constance paused, the ladle in her hand hovering half-full of broth over the pot. As much as she wanted to believe Aramis would be fine, she couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. Both the ladle and bowl fell into the pot as she pulled her hands back to cover her face.  She wasn’t crying, but she was certainly on the verge of letting loose a few tears.  “He’s not out of the woods yet, is he?” she asked, letting her hands drop away.

Treville shook his head solemnly.  “I’m afraid not. We won’t know anything for sure until he wakes up.”

Now that the truth was out, the doctor began rambling.  “There is more to be concerned about than the possibility of a lame leg,” he said, without looking up from his work on the table.  “There’s the chance of infection from his open wound. The possibility of internal bleeds, both in his hip and his head.  There’s hypothermia to be considered.  And let us not forget he’s having difficulty swallowing.  Oh, and that cough…”

“Enough!” stated Treville, noticing Constance had taken a seat. 

The doctor stopped his work and bowed his head.  “Forgive my impertinence,” he said.  “My passion for medicine gets the better of me sometimes.”

Treville sighed heavily as he massaged his temples.  “Perhaps we should discuss something else,” he suggested.  “For the sake of Madame.”

“I’m alright,” stated Constance, despite the wringing of her hands.

“Then for my sake,” stated Treville.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

As quiet as the room was, there was no peace.  Aramis still lay ensconced in Porthos’ protective arms, but he was restless- which left the others just as much so.

“He will be fine,” said Athos, breaking the silence in the room.  “He is strong.  He is a fighter.”

“He is Aramis,” added Porthos.

“And as he would for us, we shall find whoever did this and take our retribution in blood.” Athos raised his head and made sure he had Porthos’ undivided attention.  “This I promise Aramis… and each of you.”

“We would expect no less,” said d’Artagnan.

Athos inclined his head in respect, then rose from the bed to stretch his muscles and also help d’Artagnan off the floor.  Porthos waved off his proffered hand, wanting instead to stay where he was.

“Not till he wakes up,” Porthos said, giving Aramis’ chest a gentle pat.

“Understood,” replied Athos.  “How is he doing? Does he have a fever?”

Porthos put a hand to his friend’s brow.  “He’s warm.”

“The fever is coming,” d’Artagnan said, taking a seat on the table by the bed. “It’s inevitable. He was drenched when he showed up, but we got him dry the moment we knew something was wrong.”

Athos quirked up the corner of his mouth in a gentle smile.  “That’s good.  Hopefully it will lessen the fever when it does take hold.  I’m willing to take whatever blessing God sees fit to send our way, but there are other things that require our attention despite Aramis’ well-being.”

“Like who did this to him and why,” grumbled Porthos.

“Exactly,” replied Athos.

“There’s not much to go on,” started d’Artagnan.  “Except the assailant knew Aramis by name.”

“It’s something,” stated Athos.  “Perhaps when he is awake he’ll be able to retrace his steps back to where it happened.”

D’Artagnan frowned as he shook his head.  “He said he didn’t remember much.  And with all this rain, there won’t be much evidence for us to trace.”

“Let us pray it was only his discomfort that clouded his memory,” sighed Athos.

Porthos slowly shook his head with uncertainty.  “He’s got a pretty hard head, our Aramis does, but that bump he’s got is pretty big.”

“He retained some memory,” Athos reminded him.  “Perhaps there is more.   It just might take some time.”

“What…” Aramis shifted on the bed, his eyelids fluttering.  “What’s going…”

Everyone remained silent and still as the marksman came around to consciousness, slowly and in his own time.  When his eyes finally remained open, Porthos rubbed his chest and whispered into his ear. “It’s all right, we’re here with you. It’s all over.”

Aramis blinked heavily as he looked around the room.  Athos gave him a curt nod and d’Artagnan waved when his eyes met each of theirs, but Aramis still looked confused. 

“You are at the Bonacieux home,” stated Athos, his eyes navigating the room to indicate to Aramis his surroundings were indeed familiar.

Aramis took the cue and looked around slowly.  “Ah,” he whispered, unable to bring out his full voice.  “So, not the garrison?”

“Not the garrison,” replied d’Artagnan.

Porthos continued to rub his friend’s chest as he let his head fall back to the wall. “You remember anything?” he asked, wishing Aramis had blocked the entire ordeal from his mind, just as he wished he could do himself.

Aramis swallowed with great difficulty and closed his eyes.  “A little,” he said.  “It’s coming back.”

Then he fell silent. His brothers waited anxiously for him to continue.  Instead, Aramis moaned softly and rolled slowly to his right and began to curl into himself. Athos moved forward quickly, reaching the bedside within one step and put a hand to Aramis’ forehead. He looked to Porthos first, then over his shoulder to d’Artagnan. 

“The fever has finally hit,” he stated.

Porthos removed himself from behind his friend and sat on the edge of the bed as d’Artagnan went to fetch the doctor.

As Aramis curled deeper into himself, moaning and writhing and seemingly trying to push the blankets off the bed, the doctor came in and tried to usher everyone out of the room.

Athos stood his ground by the bedside, refusing to move, causing his brothers to do the same. Athos shook his head after them, indicating that they should leave.  Porthos put up the most fight, but in the end it was only Athos and the doctor who remained.  Athos knew they wanted to stay, but there were too many people in the room creating too much stimulation for Aramis.  At the door, Athos paused.  “I will stay with him throughout the night,” he said.  “Rest. The both of you.”

Porthos shook his head. “I won’t be resting,” he replied.

“Me neither,” added d’Artagnan.

“Try,” stated Athos, and then he closed the door.

When he turned back, the doctor was sitting in a chair he’d brought up to the side of the bed and was wringing out a cloth over a large bowl of water. Athos made his way to the other side of the bed and watched as the doctor’s ministrations seemingly did nothing to ease his friend’s discomfort. 

“I knew this was coming,” sighed the doctor, placing the cool, wet cloth across Aramis’ forehead.

“I believe we all did,” said Athos, arms crossed over his chest. 

Aramis was still, but his face was flush and his lips were parted as he struggled to breathe through the congestion in his lungs.  Every so often Athos could hear an audible wheeze come from his friend, and he would have to fight back the urge to smash something.  It took nearly all his self-control to stand idle as his friend suffered.

“I need to replenish the water,” the doctor said, after some time had passed.

The musketeer merely nodded, unwilling to take his eyes off Aramis.  When the doctor took his leave, Athos sat on the empty chair. He took up the cloth the doctor had been using and pressed it to his friend’s cheek.  The touch elicited a small moan from Aramis as he pressed his head into the coolness. 

The marksman moved on the bed, his arms clutching his chest and pulling at the sweater. “Hot,” he whispered.

Athos carefully pulled the sweater off his friend and threw it on the floor.  Aramis’ reaction was almost immediate as he seemed to breathe more easily and his expression relaxed.  “You’ll get through this,” said Athos, picking up his bandaged hand and holding it between his own. 

Aramis worked his mouth as if he wanted to say something but didn’t have the strength to form words. Athos rested his forehead on their cupped hands and waited patiently for his friend to gather himself.  

“I want…”

Athos looked at him expectantly.  “Take your time, Aramis.”

“… be a musketeer.”

Athos blinked and pulled his head back.  He didn’t understand where the declaration had come from, but the meaning behind it felt powerful nonetheless and something inside him began to stir. He looked away and incidentally found himself looking at Aramis’ bruised hip.  It was covered by the blanket and the long flowing shirt he’d been wearing under the sweater, and Athos could not help himself as he pushed one aside and lifted the other. 

A cruel realization hit him like a punch in the gut and he quickly covered the bruise and looked back at Aramis, unable to hide his horrified expression.

Aramis was looking at him, a tear slowly sliding down his cheek.  Athos wiped it away with his thumb and held Aramis’ hand once again in his own.  He looked directly into the eyes of his friend.   He did not need the earlier statement clarified anymore. 

“You will walk again,” Athos said with determination.  “You will ride again.  And you will be, always, a musketeer.”

Aramis swallowed with a grimace and sucked back the tears.  “Is that a promise?” he asked, with a hopeful smile.

“With every ounce of my being, yes, it is a promise.”

Aramis’ smile widened before it vanished and Athos knew he had fallen asleep, or at least, nearly asleep.

He let go of Aramis’ hand and sat back on the chair.  He put one foot on the edge of the bed and settled himself for the long night ahead.

A moment later he heard someone beside him and turned to see the doctor standing a few feet away holding a fresh bowl of water.  The doctor nodded and stepped forward.  He placed the bowl on the bedside table and pointed to the cloth still draped over Aramis’ forehead.  “Just keep him cool,” he said.  “There is nothing more we can do for him now.  It’s up to him.”

“You have nothing you can give him to help?” asked Athos.

The doctor shook his head.  “We’ve tried and he can’t keep anything down and I’m afraid trying to give him something now might just agitate him.”

Athos looked at his friend. “Which he certainly does not need right now.”

Placing a hand on Athos shoulder, the doctor also looked at Aramis sleeping on the bed. “When he wakes, tell him I’ll be by to stitch his hand.  Like you said, he does not need agitation right now.”  Then he turned to leave.

Athos called quietly after him.  “Thank you for saying _when he awakes_ , not _if_ ,” he said.

The doctor smiled sympathetically and then closed the door behind him.

The storm continued throughout most of the night, as did Aramis’ restlessness. Athos continued to cool his friend with the wet cloth and occasionally they would share in small talk when Aramis was awake. It was nearly dawn when the fever broke and Aramis began to sweat.  Athos felt relief flush over him the moment he realized the worst of it was over, but remained vigilant by his side. 

“Strange,” murmured Aramis, licking his dry lips.

“How so?” asked Athos, sitting forward in his chair.  It had been some time since they last engaged in conversation, and Athos had believed him asleep.

“I’m cold,” replied Aramis, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Athos pulled the forsaken blankets up over his friend, then sat back and rested his foot again on the edge of the bed.

Aramis turned to him, some of the normal spark in his eyes having returned and making Athos smile inwardly.  “Thank you.”

Athos inclined his head.

Aramis pulled the blanket up further as he pushed himself up a bit in the bed and found Athos staring at him expectantly.  Aramis was at a loss as to why and when he inquired, Athos merely raised a questioning brow.

Aramis sighed and closed his eyes.  “I’m not all together myself,” he said hoarsely.  “Please indulge me and just say what is on your mind.”

Athos was silent for several moments as he contemplated how to broach the subject, then deciding there was no easy way, he drew in a deep breath.  “I’m glad you’re well,” he said.  “But there is another matter we need to discuss.”

Looking down his own body, Aramis reflexively reached his left hand to grip his injured hip. “I’d rather not have the others know,” he said, sadly.  “At least till I know for sure.”

“I agree,” stated Athos. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Aramis frowned, completely at a loss.

“Is there any chance this attack has something to do with the Queen?”

Aramis coughed, surprised by the sudden change in direction the conversation had taken, and grabbed at his throat as pain seared through him.  Athos sat forward and put a hand on his shoulder as he worked through it, then he sat back again and crossed his arms over his chest with a questioning expression on his face.

Settled, Aramis took a few steadying breaths through his nose and stared back at his friend. “I don’t believe it does,” he said, determinedly.  “I don’t know why, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“Feel right?” mocked Athos, rolling his eyes.

Aramis could not remember the specifics of the previous night, only that he had left the garrison in rather high spirits, everything after that was basically a blur until he remembered d’Artagnan opening the door.  There was something nagging at the back of his mind though, and it wasn’t the Queen or the dauphin.  It came to him suddenly, and his eyebrows shot up instantly.  “I’m not dead,” he said, followed by a gentle cough as the force of his voice rattled his lungs. 

“Well, there is that,” shrugged Athos.  Then after a moment of contemplation he sat forward.  “You’re right,” he said.  “Anyone seeking retribution for your treasonous act would have most likely left you for dead.”

Aramis shifted uncomfortably. “Or would have left me to rot in a prison cell.”

“How do you know you weren’t in a prison?”

“I’m assuming I escaped whoever attacked me,” shrugged Aramis.  “I’m good, but I don’t think I could have escaped the Chatelet or Bastille in this condition.”  He couldn’t help but yawn, which caused great pain in the back of his throat.  His sudden reaction was to grab his throat and swallow as he clenched his eyes shut.

Athos was pulled from his thoughts as his friend writhed on the bed.  He stood up and leaned over him, holding him by the shoulders till he was able to calm himself.  “Are you alright?” asked Athos, his eyes searching over his friend as if he’d be able to visibly see what ailed him.  “Do you require the doctor?”

Aramis shook his head and then let his hands relax back on the bed.  “No.  I’m fine now.” He took a few steadying breaths, but was fighting to keep his eyes open.

Athos studied the marksman, noting his exhaustion, and thought maybe it was time to let him rest. He was about to tell his friend to sleep when he noticed he had already closed his eyes again. He sat back, raised both his legs onto the bed and crossed them at the ankles.  He let his head fall forward and allowed himself to also fall asleep, hoping it would come easy now that his suspicions concerning the attack being instigated over the Queen were allayed.  They had still not gotten any closer to who had actually attacked Aramis, but at least the biggest threat had been eliminated and that was enough to release some of the tension Athos had been carrying since this whole ordeal was brought to his attention.

 

**To be Continued…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**IV**

 

Porthos pulled away from the window, the dreariness of the square outside the Bonacieux home only compounding the weariness he felt.  The storm had passed an hour or so ago, just before sun up, but not the heavy clouds, leaving the air cold and musty.  He looked about the room, but his spirits did not rise. Aramis was asleep, and had been since he and d’Artagnan had come to join Athos, but he was restless.

Porthos was thankful the fever had broken, but that was only one obstacle Aramis had to overcome, and it killed Porthos that he couldn’t do anything to help- other than be there for him.  Aramis had been by his side when he’d first met his father, and regardless of how Aramis had defended his honor on many occasions that night, it had been his presence that had made the visit easier for Porthos.  He knew that the simple act of returning the favor meant a lot to his friend now. But he still felt helpless.

Suddenly, Aramis flinched and threw off his blankets.  Four hands joined Porthos’ as they tried to comfort and restrain their friend. Within moments, Aramis’ thrashing simmered down.

“It’s all right, ‘Mis,” soothed Porthos.  “We’re all here. You’re safe.”

“I thought I was in…” Aramis’ voice trailed off as he concentrated on swallowing around what felt like shards of glass imbedded in his throat. 

Athos did not want to lose their friend’s momentum.  “Please, Aramis, it’s important for you to continue if you remember something.”

Aramis nodded and drew in a steadying breath.  He kept his eyes closed so he could concentrate on the fading image in his mind, but it was like grasping at ghosts.  Each time he swallowed, a blinding pain flashed white hot in his mind, shattering any remnants of the memory he couldn’t quite grasp.  “I can’t,” he whispered.  “It’s gone.”  He rolled onto his back, grimacing as he adjusted himself.  “I’m sorry.”

Athos couldn’t hide his exasperation and began to massage his brow.  “It’s all right.  I had no right to push.”

“Wait.”

Athos stared again at Aramis, his previous resolve returning with vigor as he waited for the Spaniard to continue.

“Madame Angel.”

“She did this?” asked Porthos, with an incredulous frown.

“No,” replied Aramis. “Where I was last night. She sent for me… had a favor to ask.”

Athos braced his hands on his hips.  “Anything else?”

“Do you remember arriving?” prodded d’Artagnan.

Aramis drew in a breath, hitched himself up further in the bed and closed his eyes. Some of the memories flowed back to him, albeit disjointed and hazy.  “Someone was bothering the girls,” he said.  “A man, lurking outside.  He’d been there a few days… assumed my presence would be a deterrent.”

Opening his eyes, Aramis found his brothers staring down at him. He cleared his throat reflexively, a mistake he quickly regretted.

Baring his teeth as he clenched his jaw, he felt tiny stabs of pain at the back of his throat, and his chest began to heave as the air inside his lungs begged for release. He rolled over, ignoring the helping hands and words of encouragement fluttering around him, and braced himself on the side of the bed and tried with all his might to abate the cough.

His stomach also wanted to expel its contents, but his throat’s defiance was too strong, so he remained hanging over the bed in suspended agony.

“Get the doctor,” boomed Porthos, as he knelt before his friend to brace his shoulders. “Let it out Aramis. You’ll feel better,” he said, lowering his head to make eye contact.

“Can’t,” Aramis replied. “Hurts too much.”

The marksman felt someone sit on the bed and then someone rubbing his back.  The contact, the gentle pressure of the hand, eased some of the ache in his body.  He concentrated on the soothing touch as it calmed both his pain and nausea.  Eventually his panic eased and he was able to sit up. He turned and noticed Athos sitting next to him on the bed.

Without a word, Athos stood up and moved to face him.

“Sorry,” Aramis said, and then shared the smallest nod of gratitude with the Comte.

Porthos shook his head. “Stop apologizing,” he admonished. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

Aramis lay back, then ran a hand down his face and back up again to push his damp hair back to the pillow.  “Perhaps I do,” he said, evoking questioning frowns from his friends.  “There’s a good chance Madame Angel was right.  And if this stalker bested me, who knows what he could have done to the girls.”

The room fell still and quiet as they reflected on the implications.  It was only when d’Artagnan entered with the doctor that anyone moved.

“Make some room,” ordered the physician, pushing the musketeers aside.  He sat on the bed and quickly reached to feel Aramis’ brow.

“Warm,” he said, retracting his hand.  “Fever has not completely abated.”  He moved the blanket to examine Aramis’ hip, placing his hands over and under him, pushing and pulling, poking and prodding, all the while as his patient groaned, but did not interfere. “How does it feel?” he asked, pulling his hands back.  “Do you think you can bend your leg yet?”

Aramis slowly raised his knee off the bed, his pain and determination increasing with each inch he achieved.  When he could go no further, he stopped and let out both a breath of relief and a smile- even though his knee was merely a foot off the bed.

“Very good,” said the doctor, reciprocating his patient’s smile.

“Good?” questioned d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” replied the doctor.  “It means the opposite of bad.  Now remove yourselves. I have an examination to perform and I want privacy.”  He waved them out of the room and set to work on his patient.

Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan, although reluctant, obliged and left the room.  But Athos did not stop in the main room, he continued toward the front door; Porthos and d’Artagnan right on his heels.

“Where are you going?” Treville asked after them.

Athos paused at the top of the stairs and looked back at their Captain.  “I believe we are all in great need of Madame Angel’s services,” he said, without a hint of remorse.  Then the three musketeers went down the stairs and out the front door, closing it firmly behind them.

Treville was left standing in the main room with Constance.  He closed his gaping mouth and turned to her.  “I’m sure there is a very reasonable explanation for this.”

“There’d better be,” replied Constance, gathering her skirts as she made haste toward d’Artagnan’s old room.

 ~ ** _Musketeers~_**

Aramis stared out the window, almost in a daze.  He knew the sun had risen, although he did not remember when, but the sky was still grey and heavy from rain.  The dullness of the clouds weighed heavily on him, and he wished a ray of light would break through and shattered their bleakness.  He was grateful for remembering about Madame Angel’s, it had given his brothers somewhere to start, but his inability to join them- in conjunction with the dolefulness of the clouds, was dragging him down into a state of melancholy.

Constance was assisting the doctor, but Aramis was indifferent to their presence in the room as he continued to stare outside.  A continual sharpness at the back of his throat nearly brought tears to his eyes, his hip ached abominably even as he lay still, his head throbbed, and his lungs felt congested, but the only thing truly distracting him from falling back asleep was the stabbing of a needle into his left palm.

“Do you shoot with your right hand?”

“I shoot with both,” he said, absently.

The doctor continued his needlework. “Is it not cumbersome to use both hands?” he asked.

Aramis was tired, sore, and felt detached from his surroundings, so he did not feel like explaining himself to the doctor. 

“He means to say that he can shoot with either hand,” Constance explained.  “Aramis is as skilled with his left as he is with his right. Quite the marksman he is.”

“Extraordinary,” replied the doctor.  “Quite rare indeed. He must make a fine soldier, perhaps this won’t inhibit him too much.”

Panic swelled from Aramis’ chest out to his limbs, causing him to instinctively curl the fingers of his left hand and draw it back.  “Wait,” he said, eyes wide.  He turned, causing the doctor to miss his stitch. “Are you saying I might lose the use of my hand?” 

With a resigned sigh, the doctor took the hand back and splayed the fingers flat. He nodded to Constance to hold them still so he could continue his stitching.  “The palm is very delicate,” he stated,  “and this wound is rather deep.  If I don’t get this needlework right your hand may permanently contract.” He leaned down as he made another precision stitch.  “The damage would probably go unnoticed by the average man, but for someone like you, or me for that matter, who employ both their hands for intricate work, it might cause problems.”

Aramis digested the information then shook his head.  “No.  I will not accept that,” he said. 

The doctor continued to stitch as Constance held his hand flat.  “We have seen some success with keeping the palm and fingers flat while the wound is healing,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “But of course, we’ve also seen success in those who keep their hand moving.”  He demonstrated by making a fist and releasing it several times.  “Like that.”

“I will do both,” stated Aramis. 

His world, his life, was literally being torn away from him, body part by body part. But he was not ready to retire the uniform; there was still too much adventure to be had.  One day, perhaps, he would retire to the seminary, but he wasn’t there yet, and he’d be damned if anyone or anything was going to force him to lay down the sword, not God, not love and most certainly not some pathetic thug stalking women.

Adrift somewhere between consternation and fortitude, Aramis didn’t notice the doctor had finished with his hand. He’d also forgotten the pain in his throat, so when he reflexively tried to clear the irritating rattle in his lungs, all hell broke loose in d’Artagnan’s old room.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

“All at once, well isn’t this a surprise,” greeted Madame Angel, her hands on her hips as she swayed them to the side.  “I’m afraid most of our women are occupied, but I’m sure arrangements can be made.” She turned toward the staircase, paused, and then quickly turned back.  “Where is Aramis?”

Porthos, quite familiar with the woman, decided to take the reigns.  Being that they were on official business, he figured she might be more at ease with a friendly face. 

“Madame,” he said with a toothy grin, as he stepped forward and took her outstretched hand to lay a kiss.  “I’m afraid we’re here on official business and it’s concerning Aramis.”

Madame Angel looked aghast.  “I hope it’s not about our little arrangement,” she said.  “I know it’s not customary to employ a King’s Musketeer for such paltry work, but…”

Porthos cut her off with another kiss to her hand, and then he released it and stepped back. “I assure you, you’ve done nothing wrong.  But do you remember seeing him last night?” he asked.

“Of course,” replied Angel.  “One can not miss the arrival of Aramis.  He sends the girls into rather a tither.  Quite the, um,” she cleared her throat,  “tipper, he is.”

Porthos smiled knowingly, then he cleared his own throat and resumed his more professional manner. “How did he seem?”

“He was in good spirits,” Angel responded, before asking,  “Why? Has something happened to him?”

Porthos was about to reply, but Athos intervened.  “He is well,” he said.  “Did you see him leave? Was the interloper you requested him to scare off seen last night?”

“I didn’t see Aramis leave,” replied Angel.  “And I didn’t hear about our stalker last night either, figured Aramis had done his job. Perhaps one of the girls saw him.”

“Or perhaps someone saw Aramis leave,” suggested d’Artagnan.

Madame Angel gathered her skirts and started up the stairs.  “I’ll speak with Claudette,” she said over her shoulder. “Her room has a back door where she likes to step out for some fresh air.  She might have seen something.  She’s also quite fond of you Musketeers, probably kept a close eye on Aramis as well.”

The three men stood idly at the bottom of the staircase waiting for her return. Porthos smiled and waved at the girls in attendance as they moved about the room.  D’Artagnan distracted his wandering eyes with a fascinating piece of imagined dirt on his cuff, while Athos remained his stoic self.

“Place make you uneasy?” chided Porthos, nudging the older musketeer playfully in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’ve never graced this establishment a time or two.”

Athos gazed up at his friend from under his hat.  “I’ve sworn off love,” he said with finality.

“Not really sure it’s love for sale here,” remarked d’Artagnan, unable to stop himself from at least a quick glance around the room.

A scream from up the stairs ended the musketeer’s banter and they took immediate action. D’Artagnan was the first to reach the top, having taken two steps at a time, so the others followed him down the hall to where Madame Angel stood outside an open door, still screaming.

D’Artagnan and Athos went into the room while Porthos remained with the Madame, holding her protectively.  He turned her back to the door to shield her from the scene, and so he could see in and communicate with his brothers.  “What’s going on?” he barked.

On the bed was a young woman, dressed in a billowy white dress, her hands folded neatly on her stomach, and also, very much dead.

There was also a large red stain in the middle of her chest, presumably from a musket shot.

D’Artagnan moved further into the room and approached the back door.  He found it unlocked so he opened it.  It led directly outside to a staircase- it’s handrail broken in several places and a trail of damage on each step.  He turned back to inform the others when he spotted Athos kneeling at the foot of the bed examining something on the floor. D’Artagnan drew in a sharp breath when he recognized the object that Athos found so compelling.

“What’s going on?” boomed Porthos, his frustration building with each moment his brothers remained silent.  “What did you find?”

“Nothing good,” replied d’Artagnan.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

Aramis had almost thrown himself off the side of the bed and was now leaning over the edge while trying to hold himself up with weak arms.  He wanted to take a deep breath and cough, but the pain he knew it would cause stopped him.  He began to panic, making his lungs burn, his throat contract way too much and his limbs grow even weaker.

There were hands on his back and shoulders, and concerned words were floating around the periphery of his consciousness, but he couldn’t concentrate on them- the battle between his throat and lungs taking precedence.

He took in the largest, steadiest breath he could muster, which wasn’t much, and felt a stab of pain at the back of his throat that brought instant, uncontrollable tears to his eyes.  His lungs felt scratchy, begging to release the air trapped inside and expel the irritant he could feel nestled inside them.

But he couldn’t. The pain would be too much.

He clenched his eyes, begging to pass out but found no salvation forthcoming.

Aramis knew he had no choice, it was swallow or cough; one side had to win whether he liked it or not. He chose to swallow, and it felt like someone was tearing across his throat from ear to ear with a sharp knife. The pain was so intense he couldn’t even moan or scream afterward.

He swallowed again as he pushed himself up with what little strength he had left. The upward motion caused the scratching in his chest to intensify and he could not control the cough emanating from his lungs.  He grabbed his throat up near his ears to provide stability and expelled all the air from his lungs.

The back of his throat erupted in pain, and he saw flashes of white behind his eyelids as he coughed up bright red blood onto the floor.

Aramis hoped for some sort of salvation once it was done, but again, none came. His hip and hand completely irrelevant to him now, he swung his legs over the bed and sat leaning over the edge, refusing to release his clutching hands from his throat.

He coughed again, unable to stop now that his rattling lungs had been agitated, and expelled more blood onto the floor.

He rocked back and forth, now able to force a moan through his gritted teeth.  His lungs, finally satisfied, settled, but the sharpness in his throat did not subside.  He could feel some sort of thick liquid forming at the back of his mouth, so he leaned further forward, letting his mouth hang open, and blood dripped freely onto the floor.

Aramis couldn’t move, he could barely breathe through the miasma of pain and panic sweeping through him, yet someone was yelling at him to drink.

He opened blurry eyes to see a cup swaying in front of him.  Suddenly, strong, determined hands pulled his head back.  Aramis lacked the strength to fight as his head was tilted back and cool liquid was poured down his throat.  He gagged as his body convulsed uncontrollably.

“Don’t swallow!” he heard someone bark, and then he was suddenly pushed forward over his knees. “Spit it out!”

Aramis didn’t have to, the bloody water poured from his mouth as gravity took over. It happened again, but this time, Aramis was able to control his own body as he flung himself forward to expel the bloody liquid.

After a third time, he pushed the doctor’s hands away.  He’d had enough.  He could breathe again, the cough was sated and he no longer felt blood pooling at the back of his mouth.

He was, however, still bent over with his hands braced on the edges of the mattress. Tears still welled in the corners of his eyes, but he could control himself once again.  Which meant he could also control, to a degree, the pain in his throat.

“I need a light,” ordered the doctor.  “Fetch a candle.”

Aramis heard the scuffling of feet, but didn’t look up.  He heard two men talking, but ignored them.  He knew what was coming and he needed these moments to brace himself. Sometimes, it was a curse to have even a modicum of medical knowledge.  The next few moments might have been easier for him if he didn’t know what to expect, but he did, and it frightened him more than anything he could imagine.

“Get behind him and hold his head still.”

Aramis heard the command issued from the doctor and felt the mattress shift behind him. Then rough hands ensconced his forehead as his head was braced against someone’s chest.

Aramis reflexively clamped his mouth shut, knowing it was only going to make it harder on him, but unable to control himself.  A few seconds later, hands pried his jaw open.  

With his neck extended and jaw wrenched open, he thrashed about as the tearing pain at the back of his throat became too much to bear.  He lashed out with both his arms, needing the pain to stop, and pushed the doctor away with such force he landed on the floor several feet away.

Aramis wrenched free from Treville and doubled over, holding his neck in a vice-like grip.

“There is something there,” the doctor stated, his voice laced with concern and surprise. “Something is lodged in the back of this throat.  Unfortunately I didn’t see it sooner, but it has to come out now.”

Treville compassionately pulled his musketeer back toward him.  “Aramis, it has to be done.”

“I know,” whimpered the Spaniard.  “I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”

Aramis whimpered again. It was all he had the strength to do. He felt ashamed for his display of weakness, but there was only so much anguish he could handle. He allowed the self-wallowing to continue for a few moments longer, then he looked up and saw Constance standing before him holding a burning candle. 

She shook her head lightly.  There was with pity and remorse in her eyes, and it angered him greatly.  He did not like being the recipient of either emotion; they only made him feel weak. 

Aramis swallowed, hitching at the pain, then he took a moment longer to draw on his anger and sat back up. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, his voice thick and soft, yet obstinate.  He then rested his hands behind him at the small of his back. “Restrain me.”

“Are you certain?” asked Treville, placing a hand on his musketeer’s shoulder.

“I’m certain,” replied Aramis.  “It’s the only way.”

There was a long silence before Treville reluctantly removed one of his belts. He wound the leather around Aramis’ wrists and placed the excess under his knee for added strength. “Forgive me,” he said.

“I told you to do it,” Aramis said, quietly.  Then he tilted his head back and parted his lips, giving permission for the doctor to try again.

Treville put a hand on Aramis’ forehead, the other he used to cup his chin, and then he gently pulled back to brace his musketeer against his body. 

Constance leaned forward with the candle, and a moment later Aramis felt pain explode at the back of his throat as the doctor pulled his jaw down again and held it steady.

He nearly gagged when he felt something cold slide along the roof of his mouth and down over the edge of his tongue, but he didn’t fight it, he had to end his agony and this was the only way.

It only took moments for his throat to fill with blood, causing a gurgling sound to escape his mouth and his body to buck against his Captain’s.

Instinctively, Treville stood up on the bed, simultaneously relinquishing his hands from Aramis’ head and his knee from the restraint binding his musketeers’ hands.

Aramis lurched forward to expel the blood, and then he sat back up and resumed his position. “Again,” he stated, blinking back unshed tears as he tilted his head back.

Treville knelt down and he retook his hold, and Constance and the doctor leaned in again.

Aramis fought the urge to squirm, fought back the tears, fought through the pain and prayed his suffering would end.  He became oblivious to everything around him as he begged and pleaded to his God for help, so he was not aware when his three brothers entered the room.

They stood aghast in the doorway, watching with both fear and uncertainty as the doctor retracted his hand from Aramis’ mouth, forceps bloody and holding something.

“I’ve got it,” announced the doctor, and Treville instantly released the musketeer.

Aramis slid off the bed to his knees and bent forward till his forehead rested on the floor, bright red blood dripping from his parted lips.  His throat and neck screamed in agony, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. Pride be damned, he deserved the release and he didn’t much care who was watching.

Aramis finally let the unremitting tears fall, his whole body hitching with each painful sob. He cried in pain. He cried in defeat. The floodgate holding his deepest emotions opened and he couldn’t stop all his fears and uncertainties from pouring out. Maybe this was the end? Maybe this was to be his downfall? He couldn’t fathom how to fight this or even find the strength and energy to do so.

He felt hands scrambling to undo his bonds and when his hands hit the floor, he slowly drew them up the length of his body, laced his fingers together behind his head and continued to sob.  He felt drained, helpless and vulnerable- all things he detested.

Above him, Athos grabbed what the doctor held so carefully in his medical instrument and took it to find a bowl of clean water.  Porthos dropped before Aramis’ head and bent forward to cocoon his friend, his hands fisted as he rested them gently on the small of Aramis’ back. D’Artagnan took Constance in his arms, as much for his own sake as hers. 

A moment later, Athos returned brandishing the small, now clean, object removed from Aramis’ throat. “It’s a shard,” he declared. “Looks like iron.”

Aramis heard Athos, and a memory suddenly broke through his anguish from his subconscious. But he was physically and motivationally bankrupt and in no state to voice anything, so they would have to wait.

  **To be Continued…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**V.**

 

 

_The night of the attack…_

 It was Antoine’s third night carousing the back alley of the bordello, and he was still having no luck finding what he needed.  On the second night, he had indulged in the services of a courtesan hoping to scope out the prospects from within, but was escorted out before he could make his move. Drunk and disorderly, he was removed by a rather scrappy woman with a sharp blade and even sharper tongue. But while inside, he had seen a few prospects, one in particular who seemed skilled in the ways of whore’s tricks.

 She was close. But not quite right.

 So on this third night, he was beginning to think close was going to have to suffice.

 There was plenty of night remaining, so he could gather his men and return for her later. The storm would have hit, but it would be of no consequence, in fact, it would provide better cover.

 He turned to leave when movement caught his eye.  He ducked behind a pillar to wait for the person to clear away, but when he saw the man’s easy gait and blue sash around his waist, his breath hitched. “Aramis,” he seethed.

 He watched the musketeer saunter through the alley- whistling and making his presence known. “Arrogant bastard,” spat Antoine, pulling a flask from an inside pocket of his doublet. 

 His flask was elegant, silver and gold inlay- and worth much more than the tattered, beaten, leather doublet he wore.  He ran a finger over the decorative design, seething at the memory of how this musketeer had destroyed the indulgent life he once had.  His stomach began to ache and he rubbed a hand over where a hardened, ugly scar also reminded him of what Aramis’ interference had taken from him. And as his eyes drifted back to the musketeer his anger intensified.

 He pulled away from the shadow where he hid and drank greedily from his flask.

 When Aramis moved on, Antoine staggered further down the alley and into the backdoor of a derelict shop. The floor was a mix of packed dirt and old stone, the air was filled with smoke, both new and old, and carried a heavy undertone of must and metal.  Tools and benches, unused for some time, littered the room as they sat coated in dust and cobwebs.  There were also a few lit candles and lanterns strewn about, illuminating the faces of several intoxicated and heavily armed men.

 Antoine stepped into the middle of the room and snarled, his chest heaving as the momentum of his anger spread throughout his body.  His men looked at him, ready for their orders.

 “You find one?” asked one of them.

 “I found something better,” Antoine replied, then took another long swig from his flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy, soot smeared hand.  “I found the man who took everything from me. And tonight, he’s going to pay for what he and that mutt friend of his did!”

 His men looked at him with eagerness.  “What about the girls?” one asked.

 Antoine glared at the one who spoke.  “Oh, I’ve got better plans for them now.  But I only need certain ones.”  

 “Like the whore from last night?” asked one man, stepping forward.  “The young looking one?”

 “She will do,” he spat back, making his way toward a trunk on the other side of the room. He opened it and rummaged inside. He pulled out a white dress and tucked it into his doublet and turned back to his men.   “Brace yourselves. We’ve got us a musketeer to catch.”

 As the rain began to fall, the men moved out.  Approaching the house of ill repute, they could hear music and laughter and used it to their advantage as they climbed the back stairs to the whore’s room. Only the lilting sound of her singing emanated from her boudoir, so they wasted no time barging in to catch her off guard.  There was hardly a scuffle as she was restrained by several men and forced onto the bed. To her relief, they left her sitting there bound and gagged instead of having their way with her.

 “Such a tableau of innocence,” cooed Antoine, as he ran the back of his hand along her cheek. Then he slapped her hard, causing her head to snap to the right.  She cried but he merely laughed in response.  “There’s more of that if you don’t do as I say,” he stated, then he pulled the dress from his coat and tossed it onto her lap.  “You’ll wear this,” he instructed.  “And you’ll call that musketeer roaming around in the alley up to your room.”  He turned away, walked toward the back door and peered down into the alley.  The rain was coming down harder, soaking the ground and creating large pools of sloshy mud.  “Bring him up this way.  Do as you’re told and I’ll let you live.”

 Claudette nodded as tears fell from the corners of her eyes.  A moment later she was being unbound and told to change her clothes. The men gave her no privacy as she did, leering and pinching, caressing and slapping, and when she was done she was pushed toward the back door.  Antoine stood behind her, leaning heavily on her shoulder with his stale breath heating her neck.  She shivered and swallowed around the gag still in her mouth.

 “When I see him, I’ll take off the gag,” he said.  Claudette felt something sharp run down her arm and she did not have to look to know it was the tip of a blade.   “Try anything funny and you die horribly.  Then I kill that musketeer.”

 Claudette nodded.

 “Good little whore,” he replied.

 It was almost an hour later when Aramis was spotted making his way from awning to awning, trying to avoid a complete drowning as he made his way through the alley. Claudette was immediately ungagged, and when she showed no signs of betraying her captors, she was thrust into the doorway.

 “Hello! You there!” she called, waving to the musketeer in the rain.  “You look like you could use a little warming up!  Only a fool stays out in this rain!”

 Aramis looked up at Claudette and waved.  He appeared hesitant, but then he ran forward, holding his hat in place as the cold rain drove down on him.  It was only moments later when he entered her room.

 “Perhaps for a short while,” he smiled, stepping inside.

 A man stepped forward and swung his blade at the musketeer, but his attempt was thwarted by a daring move as Aramis caught the blade in his own hand.  Then as the musketeer tried to grab his own weapon, another one of the gang members bashed the butt of his pistol across the back of Aramis’ head.  Surprised at the stubbornness of the musketeer, Antoine grabbed Aramis from behind and hurled him toward the staircase.  Again, their target did not go down so he ordered his men to take him out by whatever means possible. Within seconds the musketeer was falling backward down the stairs.

 Their target lay on the muddy ground, his hands bracing his left hip as his head was thrown back in anguish.

 Antoine turned back into the room to address Claudette as his men scrambled down the stairs to capture their target.  A moment later he was presented with Aramis’ weapons from which he chose one of the pistols.

 Claudette stood frozen as it was raised to her chest.  “Pity, “ he said.  “You could have been worth a fortune.” Then he fired, dropping the weapon at the foot of the bed and stepped forward to arrange his victim.

 Outside, his men were frantically trying to restrain Aramis, but despite the beating he had already taken, he was still fighting.  Eventually, one of the men resorted to knocking him out medically. A bottle of vile, bittier liquid was forced down Aramis throat and seconds later he went limp. The men didn’t bother to carry their victim, instead, they dragged him across the alley through the mud to their hideout. 

 Aramis was deposited in the corner of the room in a heap, but a moment later he began to move.

 “My god, he’s awake!” gasped one of the men.

 “Gag ‘im!” ordered Antoine, as he entered, throwing the rest of Aramis’ weapons on a table.   The men complied, grabbing whatever rag or rope they could find, but the musketeer did not make it easy for them as he thrashed about.

 “Persistent bugger, this Aramis is,” griped one of them, as he tied a gag behind the musketeer’s head.  Then he pulled out his pistol, and for good measure, struck Aramis across the back of his head. Aramis slumped back to the floor.

 “Tie him up,” ordered Antoine. “I want at least two more women before the night ends!  He cost me eight and he will pay tenfold!”

  _~M~_

 Aramis was convinced he was asleep.  There was no way a man could endure this much pain and remain conscious. 

 But he was awake. And gagged and bound and lying on a cold, hard ground.

 He had no idea how long he had been there when he finally blinked his eyes open, shuddering at the explosion of pain behind his eyes.  He fought through it because the one thing he did know for sure was that he was in trouble. 

 He tried to move, but pain- everywhere and all at once, inhibited his movement. He was shivering uncontrollably and having difficulty breathing.  His lungs ached to release a stubborn irritant but when he coughed something tore across the back of his throat making him cry out. 

 Knowing he had to get himself free, he braced himself and with one agonizing push, he was able to sit up.  His surroundings were unfamiliar, and he couldn’t remember what had happened.  A panic rose from the pit of his stomach that he quickly quashed with determination.   He needed his wits, he needed his strength, and he needed to escape.

 His wrists were wet and slippery, and the bindings around them gave a little when he tried to work his hands free.  He used it to his advantage and twisted and pulled until he could slide his hands out from the ropes.

 Aramis had no time to take stock of his injuries, nor dwell on the pain, as he undid his gag and threw it away.  He pushed up but found himself on the ground instead, his hip not allowing him to bear weight. He cried out in frustration as he pounded a hand on the ground and tried again.  He had no way of knowing where his captors were, or who they were, just that he had to get up and find help.

 With steadying breaths, he squinted into the darkness and noticed a large door on the other side of the room.  He could hear rain beating against the walls of the room, but could not hear past the constant thrum to notice if anyone was on the other side. 

 But he had to go.

  _Get help_ was the only thought on his mind as he dragged himself across the cold floor. He bit back the urge to cry out as he pulled himself up the doorframe to get a better look outside.

 Again, nothing familiar.

 He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he had been doing prior to waking up in this strange place, but nothing came to him.  He let out a frustrated sigh and rested his head against the frame. His leg was slipping out beneath him in defiance of his weight, his throat screamed with a pain that echoed in the deep parts of his ears and there was a throbbing in his head that refused to let him concentrate on more than one thought at a time.  And that one thought kept repeating in his head like a mantra, get out, get help.

 With a deep breath he pushed open the door and staggered into an alleyway.  He fell hard on the ground, unable to even brace himself as he landed in cold mud.  The rain beat down and a part of him wanted to succumb to it’s relentless onslaught and give up, curl into a ball and let it wash away all his problems.  But he knew it was a myth and all the rain was doing was making him cold and wet. 

 He had to get to the garrison, wherever it was, before his captors came back and found him missing. He tried again to get to his feet, determined to fight through the pain.  He stumbled, crying out as he held on to his left hip and dragged himself to the closest wall for support.  There, he rested, but not for long. 

 Aramis slid along the building, unable to stand without its help, bracing his hip and fighting to keep his balance.  His head swam causing everything to shift before his eyes.   His lungs burned and he found it hard to catch his breath, and the sharpness in his throat would not allow him to swallow or cough. 

 Aramis forced himself forward out of the alleyway and onto a deserted street. Only a few Parisians dared travel the streets at this time of night, and even they had stayed indoors due to the weather, so Aramis was alone.  And he had run out of building to support himself, so he pushed off the end of the wall and stumbled into the street in search of another purchase.

 He found it by way of a barrel, and he collapsed over it as his world tilted around him.   He looked around, hoping to recognize something… anything.  But the rain was obscuring his view almost as much as his dizziness. Then he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

 A well.

 There was a well near the garrison.

 Or was there? He wasn’t sure. He just knew the well was something familiar.

 Aramis staggered out into the streets again, dragging his left leg through the mud as he made his way toward the first thing familiar to him since waking up.

 By the time he arrived at what he thought was the front door of the garrison, he was so cold and numb, he could barely feel anything anymore.  He thought it a blessing as he fell against the door.  He pounded his fists wishing he could yell for help, but his throat would not allow it. 

 He slumped against the door, and was slowly falling down as his misery overwhelmed him, when suddenly someone was standing before him. 

 “You’re not on duty,” Aramis mumbled, when he recognized d’Artagnan.  Then he let his whole body go slack in his friend’s embrace.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

**** _Present time…_

 Porthos was leaning against the doorframe to d’Artagnan’s old room, his head bowed slightly- heavy with concern, and only half-listening to the conversation behind him between his Captain and brothers in the main room.   His attention was on Aramis.This man, this brother of his, was usually so vibrant, so alive, so full of confidence and vigor and quick with wit, but now there was only one word he could use to describe him- and it killed him to even think it.

 No man, especially a musketeer, ever wanted to be associated with that word, and Porthos found it more difficult applying it to his friend than anyone else. Aramis was the rock of their inseparable group- not easily broken and always ready to fight. The marksman thrived when living on the edge and believed that in order to truly live one must taste death. So seeing him now, having nearly tasted death and looking as if he’d given up the fight, was hard for Porthos to stomach.  If Aramis could fall, what chance did the rest of them have?   

 Porthos found it hard to stand still.  He wanted to rush forward and shake his friend- tell him to get up, push through the pain and fight! Porthos flinched, about to move forward, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t actually bring himself to disturb his sleeping friend, so he resigned himself to just watch.

 Aramis was still on the floor. 

 As he lay there, his head cradled in Constance’ lap, a blanket over him and a small bowl by his head, Aramis was fully aware of his friend watching from the doorway.

 He stretched out his left leg to ease the soreness building in his hip and swallowed gently. There was still a tearing pain across the back of his throat, but it had eased substantially. Now his concern was the blood still oozing from the wound at the back of his throat.  Not wanting to swallow, he would occasionally tip his head and spit into the bowl. 

 Aramis had remained silent since taking this position; wanting to share the memory he had recovered, but too tired to speak, almost apathetic.  But he knew if he told them, it would ease his mind and he would be able to sleep, which he wanted more than anything.

 Sleep would solve so many problems.  It would grant him reprieve from the pain, help him heal and most importantly, it would give his friend in the doorway an excuse to walk-away.  Aramis hated being a distraction.  He hated being the object of sympathy.  He hated people worrying over him.  He hated it because it made him feel weak.

 Creaking of old floorboards broke him from his thoughts and he felt Constance give his shoulder a shake.  “He’s gone,” she said.

 Aramis rolled his head back to look up at her.

 Constance smiled knowingly. “I had a hunch,” she shrugged. “His hovering was making even me uncomfortable.”

 Aramis’ eyes crinkled as he smiled back and promised himself to never underestimate a woman’s intuition ever again.

 “It was a little suffocating,” he whispered, through his raw throat.

 Constance squeezed his shoulder and moved the bowl aside.  “Perhaps you would like to get up now?  The bed is far more accommodating than this floor.”

 He took a breath to decide and then began to raise himself off the floor.  Constance helped him up the rest of the way and settled him gingerly on the bed where he lay himself down.  The pillows were propped back up behind him and she was returning the blanket when he reached out and grabbed her arm.  “Gagged,” he said, relaying his earlier memory. “I remember being gagged.”

 Constance nodded and did not waste time informing the others.

 Aramis sat himself up further to accommodate his hip and then began flexing his left hand. He was watching his slow, painful progress releasing his grip when his Captain and brothers entered the room.

 “Gagged?” repeated Treville, entering before the other musketeers.

 Aramis nodded.

 “Cloth? Rope?  Chain?” pushed Treville.

 Aramis considered the question for a moment.  “Rag,” he whispered, this throat still not capable of full voice. “Filthy.  I remember a horrible taste in my mouth.”

“Did it taste like soot?” asked Athos.

 Again, Aramis considered the question.  “Possibly. Why?”

 Treville crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.  “We think the shard the doctor removed from your throat was iron, meaning that at one point you were probably somewhere in or near a metal shop. You probably inhaled the shard from off the rag. And it sounds like your lungs are most likely infected with iron dust.”

 Aramis sighed and rolled his eyes at how a simple dirty rag could cause so much agony. “I remember,” he whispered, more details of that fateful evening now becoming clear.  He closed his eyes and relayed his memory as it coalesced in his mind.  “I was on the ground, in a large room.  There were tools and benches around me.  I was wet, cold, couldn’t stand, but I still fought them.  There were several men… they reeked of alcohol, and I remember the smell of must and metal, and that it took several of them to get the gag in my mouth. I felt a stabbing pain in my throat and I couldn’t breathe.”

 “Metal and benches? Perhaps you were taken to a blacksmith shop,” observed Treville.  He looked to Athos for confirmation and received a nod.  “Are there any near Madame Angel’s?”

 “Not sure,” stated d’Artagnan.

 Porthos shrugged.

 Athos nodded. “Lemaitre’s,” he said. “It has been derelict since his death.”

 D’Artagnan cringed at the name, remembering how the King had offered his execution to him. Bruno Lemaitre had deserved punishment for his involvement in his brother’s slave trading, but the King had promised leniency for helping in the end.   Unfortunately, that leniency had been an illusion.

 “You don’t think this has anything to do with him, do you?” asked d’Artagnan. “We all saw Rochefort execute him, and the rest of his brother’s gang were either killed or captured.”

 “No, I don’t suspect his involvement,” replied Athos.  “But his empty shop would make an excellent hideout.”

 The momentum was tangible as a plan began to formulate.  Aramis watched, but only half listened as Treville, Athos and d’Artagnan made speculations and plans to further their investigation. Porthos had remained silent the entire time, which was making Aramis uncomfortable.  He beckoned him over to sit next to him on the bed, to which his friend obliged.

 Porthos sat with a smile, but his body language depicted anything but contentment.

 “Where’s the doctor?” Aramis asked. 

 “Do you need ‘im?” asked Porthos, his face paling as he rose swiftly from the bed.

 Aramis stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.  “No,” he whispered.  “Just inquiring.”

 Porthos relaxed back onto the bed, but not completely.  There were tight lines around his mouth and his brow was set determinedly. “Ah, Treville sent him off to get some sleep.  He’ll be by later to check on your progress.  How are you feeling, anyway?”

  Aramis drew in a breath and held it so he could brace himself before exhaling. A deep rattle emanated from his chest but no cough was forthcoming.  “As good as can be expected,” he replied.  Then he raised his left hand off the bed and began flexing his fingers in and out of a fist.  “It hurts a lot to move, and it doesn’t always obey my commands,” he continued in a soft whisper. “I’m afraid of disturbing the stitches, but I must remain vigilant.  The hip still aches and I can’t move my leg much without the pain and stiffness.” Aramis paused when he noticed Porthos was no longer looking at him, but rather, at his own hands hanging between his knees.  Aramis gave him a light punch on the leg with the back of his hand.  “I will be fine,” he stated.

 Porthos did not look at him as he hung his head and shook it lightly.  “You gave us quite a scare,” he said, his voice near breaking.

 Aramis smiled. “It was never my intention to scare anyone,” he whispered.  Then he added with a smile, “Except maybe Madame Angel’s stalker.  How did that go?  Did you speak with her?  Was everyone all right?”

 Porthos looked at him suddenly, his eyes slightly glazed, and Aramis knew he had found the fly in the ointment- the reason behind Portho’s expression.  “They are not okay, are they?” he asked.

 Porthos shook his head, his lips barely visible.  “We found one dead.  Murdered. Shot in the chest.”

 Aramis pushed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.  He wanted to swallow the grief travelling up his throat, but did not have the strength to fight off the pain it would inflict. “Who?” he asked.

 “Claudette,” replied Porthos.

 “Ah, she was so young,” sighed Aramis.

 “Well, not that young,” corrected Porthos.

 Aramis conceded with a gentle nod.  He remembered the girl from Madame Angel’s parties, but she had always seemed a little too naive and both he and Porthos had kept their distance, despite her incessant desirous pursuits. She’d also seemed a little too frivolous and of course, although not actually that young, she did appear very young.

 Madame Angel’s was a respectable establishment; the women clean and consenting, and of course, old enough to understand the delicate affairs of their vocation. But there was no accounting for taste when it came to a man’s desires.  Some men liked their women blonde, some liked them petite, and some liked them virginal and young. Aramis liked his women to be strong and intelligent, not acting like little girls.  In fact, the idea of any man wanting to bed anything akin to a young girl made him sick.

 Aramis looked at Porthos and cringed.  His father had been involved in some nasty business concerning young girls, and Aramis knew the entire topic was a touchy subject for Porthos.  He remained closed mouthed and turned the conversation elsewhere. “Any evidence left behind?” he asked.

 Porthos drew in a deep breath before answering.  “Only your pistol,” he stated.

 

**To be Continued…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author’s Note** \- I like to post my first two chapters back to back, spread out the middle chapters, and then post the final two chapters back to back as well. There was a minor delay in getting the middle chapters back from my wonderful beta reader, JenF (I don’t think she knew I had already started posting the story), but I have them all now so I will be posting the rest of the story quite frequently from now on, and will post the final two chapters back to back so as not to drag out the conclusion for too long. Sorry for the delay.

* * *

 

 

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

 VI.

 “Surely, I do not have to account for my innocence,” Aramis whispered harshly, a deep rattling in his lungs rising into his throat.

 Porthos settled his friend by placing a hand on his chest.  “No, of course not,” he replied.  “But someone definitely wants to see you suffer.”

 Aramis was not immune to the cruel nature of the world, and as a musketeer he knew many a man hated him, but he couldn’t fathom anyone wanting to kill a prostitute in his name.

 A sudden thought came to him.  “My pistol was found next to Claudette?” he asked.  Porthos nodded.  “Where are my other weapons?”

 Porthos frowned and then rose from the bed.  “D’Artagnan,” he called into the other room, and within moments all the musketeers were standing around the Spaniard.  “Where are Aramis’ things?” he asked.  “Did he have his belt when he arrived here?”

 D’Artagnan braced his hands on his hips.  “Yes,” he replied. “But there were no weapons. His belt was bare.”

 “Why is this the first we’ve heard of this?” asked Treville, frustration evident in his voice.

 D’Artagnan shrugged and bared his palms.  “I was a little preoccupied,” he said, motioning toward Aramis.

 “My apologies,” replied Treville, dropping his head.  “This is just…  It’s been…” he stopped and turned away with an aggravated sigh.

 “Why is this so important now?” asked d’Artagnan, then the answer became evident and it was his turn to sigh.  “Aramis still has weapons out there,” he said slowly.  “And if one was used to murder someone, then…”

 “The rest can be used to commit more murders,” finished Athos.

 Aramis rolled his eyes. “Well, isn’t this a lovely set of circumstances,” he whispered.

 “We’ll get your weapons back,” stated D’Artagnan.

 “Perhaps before they are tainted with murder,” suggested Aramis lightly, although his intent was much to the contrary.

 Athos adjusted his hat and squared his shoulders.  Things were happening and pieces were coming together, but although they did not have a culprit as of yet, they had more to work with.  “D’Artagnan and I will check Lemaitre’s shop,” he said determinedly.  “Porthos, scout out some of the vendors in the area, perhaps we will be lucky and they sold the weapons.”  He paused and looked at Treville expectantly, he did not feel right giving him orders.

 “I will go with Porthos,” Treville replied, with an understanding nod.

 “And I will wait here and do nothing,” whispered Aramis, as both his hands came up to rake frustratingly through his hair.

 “You will do nothing of the sort,” reprimanded Constance, as she came into the room carrying a tray.

 The others stepped quickly out of her way as she put the tray on the bedside table, gathered a chair and placed it accordingly beside the patient.  “You will rest and heal,” she said, looking down at Aramis. “And you will try and eat something.”

 As Constance picked up a small cup from her tray, Aramis peered around her at his brothers quietly exiting the room.  “Help,” he whispered, pleadingly.

 Porthos cocked his head toward his friend and cupped his ear.  “Sorry, ‘Mis, didn’t hear that.”  Then he made a hasty retreat along with the others.

 Aramis looked back up at Constance with a boyish grin to which her reply was a challenging raised eyebrow.  Aramis knew better than to argue with her, so he surrendered without a fight and tested this throat with a gentle swallow.  The sharp pain it elicited made him grimace and subconsciously his right hand moved up to massage his throat.

 Constance softened, her shoulders dropping as she placed the cup back on the tray. “I don’t mean to force you to do anything you’re not ready to,” she said warmly, motioning for him to sit up in the bed.  She adjusted the pillows behind him and then watched as Aramis made himself comfortable. She fought back a grimace of her own when she saw how much the movement bothered him.  “But you have to get your strength back,” she said, regaining her resolve.

 Aramis studied her. There was something peculiar lying beneath the surface of her conciliatory features, and he could feel a strange sort of knot forming in his stomach.  Typically adept at reading a woman’s inner most desires, Aramis strangely found himself quite illiterate to her countenance.  He couldn’t tell what was brewing and he was unsure if he wanted to know, so he nodded toward the tray to let her know she could proceed, deciding that perhaps he was simply wrong and it was only concern she was trying so hard to hide.

 Constance brought the cup to his lips and he sniffed gently.  He smiled at her with surprised appreciation.  “Honey?”

 “It helps soothe the throat,” she replied.  “I mixed it with some tea.”

 Aramis leaned in to take a sip, but abruptly pulled his head back.  “Too hot,” he whispered, laying his head back on the pillows.

 Constance scowled disapprovingly, in challenge of his excuse, then tested the tea for herself.  She found the temperature to her liking but understood how Aramis might find it too bracing for his raw throat.  She put it back on the tray and decided to try some water instead.

 He took the cup in his right hand but also used his left to raise it to his lips. She smiled and nodded, fully understanding his want to keep his injured hand useful.  He took two tiny sips, bracing his throat and grimacing after each one, and then passed the cup back to her.  She held it in her lap and watched him close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing.

 “A little nauseous,” he whispered.

 “How’s the head?” she asked.

 “Pounding, but tolerable,” he replied.

 “Your hip?”

 Aramis shifted. “Stiff and aching.”

 Constance nodded at his bandaged hand, surprised at how clipped her voice had become. “You’ve been doing as the doctor suggested?”

 Aramis flexed his hand stiffly a few times and then lay it flat on the bed. “Anything else?” he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

 Constance stared at him for several long moments before she answered.  “Yes.”

 Aramis blinked. “Well, that was succinct.”

 Constance kept staring until Aramis became quite uncomfortable.  Whatever had been brewing earlier was about to boil over and he was now unequivocally sure he didn’t want to know.

 “I know about the dauphin,” stated Constance flatly.

 Aramis’ mind went blank as every muscle in his body tensed simultaneously.  “Oh,” was all he could say.

 “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say? _Oh!_ ” She rose from the chair and began pacing the room to release her frustration.

 “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he replied dejectedly, as he began to massage his forehead.

 “Well I think we have to talk about it,” she stated, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.

 Aramis dug his fingers deeper into his forehead as he continued to massage.  “Why?”

 “Why? Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. When Aramis did not look at her she continued.  “This whole mess could be because someone else knows!  All this might be because you couldn’t keep it in your britches!” The moment the words were out of her mouth she wished she could take them back.  She clamped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from saying anything further.

 Aramis turned away and closed his eyes.  His hand slid from his forehead to cover his eyes.

 “I’m sorry,” stammered Constance, as she rushed to retake her chair.  Taking his left hand between hers, she began stroking it gently in appeasement.  “I didn’t mean that,” she said, his hurt expression tearing her apart inside.  “It wasn’t my place.  And I truly didn’t mean it.”

 “Yes, you did,” replied Aramis, softly.

 Constance let out a deep breath and hung her head.  “All right,” she conceded.  “I meant what I said, but not how I said it.”

 Aramis continued to rub at the corners of his eyes and would not look at her. His head began to pound with a new intensity and his stomach increased its efforts to expel its contents. He breathed steadily, hoping it would abate, but it didn’t.  Finally, he spoke.   “One cannot help with whom one falls in love,” he whispered.

 “You love her?” asked Constance.

 “As much as one can given the circumstances.”

 “But you knew…”

 “I knew nothing at the time,” replied Aramis, rather bitterly.  “I was barely half my mind that night at the convent.”

 Constance drew her head back.  “Over the Queen?” she asked, dismayed.  “But she was in danger! She was vulnerable! You should have shown restraint and controlled your urges.”

 All at once, Aramis’ emotions turned turbulent, and mixed with the exhaustion of his recuperating body, he became almost too tired to continue the conversation. “She needed comfort and I was there, willing and able.  I just didn’t realize how much so till it was too late,” he replied with a non-committal shrug.

 Constance shook her head.  “It’s just like you men,” she admonished.  “You need to learn how to think with your brains before you act.”

 Aramis did not want to discuss the issue further, and he especially did not want Constance to know what had really happened at the convent.  He was more comfortable with her thinking it was all his, and in no part the Queen’s advancements, that had instigated their affair. He would not abide anyone thinking less of Anne.

 “You’re right,” he said finally.  Despite his malaise, anger was building in him and he couldn’t stop his venomous tone as he spoke his next words.  “We men need to think less with our hearts and let our brains decide what is best for us. Like wealth and station. That leaves out most of the woman in Paris, but you needn’t worry because you’ve already latched onto d’Artagnan.”

 By the time he was finished, Constance was standing, her face red with anger and her limbs shaking.

 Aramis wanted to be alone, so he pointed toward the door before she could rebuke his angry insults.

 Exasperated, Constance turned and left.  She needed to expend her anger by doing something physical so she paced, and after awhile, she began to calm down.   She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when suddenly she heard a scuffling from the other room, followed shortly after by the sound of a door slamming.  She spun around and noticed the door to d’Artagnan’s old room was closed.  She went immediately to the door and arrived in time to hear a thud, as if a body had just hit the floor.

 She knocked frantically with one hand as she tried to turn the knob with the other, but the door would not budge.

 “Aramis! Aramis!”

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 Bruno Lemaitre’s shop was in the vicinity of Madame Angel’s, not in clear view, but an easy walk, even if dragging an unwilling participant.  It appeared derelict, but the doors were not locked and gave easily when Athos pushed them open.  They were instantly assaulted by an overwhelming stench.  Athos pulled his scarf up his face to protect his senses as d’Artagnan moved further into the room.

 “Do you smell that?” asked the Gascon, turning slowly to locate the smell.

 “You’ll have to be more specific,” replied Athos.

 D’Artagnan continued to spin around sniffing the air.  “I smell perfume.”

 Athos raised an eyebrow. “I wish I had your senses,” he stated. “I smell nothing more than rot and soot.”

 The young musketeer stopped suddenly and began walking toward an upturned table, his sense of smell leading the way.  “Yes, rot,” he replied. “But under that…”

 Athos approached the table when d’Artagnan was no longer forthcoming.  “What?”

 D’Artagnan sighed, ran a hand down his face and then motioned behind the table. “Rot and perfume,” he said, looking away.

 Without hesitation, Athos peered over the furniture to see two young women dead on the ground.

 Both women, each wearing a flimsy white dress, lay neatly arranged beside each other. One had a slit throat while the other bore a large red stain where her heart had once beat.  Beside them both, were Aramis’ sword and musket.

 Athos closed his eyes and turned away, shielding himself from the sight.  “Who would do this?”

 D’Artagnan went around the table and knelt by the bodies.  Gently, he closed their eyes, sat back and tried to remember one of Aramis’ prayers.  But his mind was reeling from an influx of sadness mixed with anger and he could not think straight. He looked up at his mentor hoping to take a cue from his typically stoic nature and ease his mind, but even Athos was having trouble digesting the scene.

 The older musketeer turned back to the bodies but there was an emotion on his face d’Artagnan could not read.  It looked somewhere between sorrow and realization. 

 “What is it?” asked d’Artagnan.

 “The dresses,” pointed out Athos.

 “What about them?”

 Athos came around the table to kneel beside the Gascon, never taking his eyes off the two girls in the white nightgowns.  “We’ve seen this before.”

 “Yes,” replied d’Artagnan.  “On the prostitute at Madame Angel’s.”

 Athos looked at him sharply.  “Before that,” he stated, and then he stood and gathered Aramis’ weapons and passed them to d’Artagnan. “Take these.  I’m going to make arrangements for their removal. Find Porthos and Treville and meet me back at the house.”

 D’Artagnan took the weapons in his arms, stood up and waited for further explanation, but there was none coming.  He watched as his mentor left the shop, then looked back at the two girls with a furrowed brow. “Where have we seen this?”

**_~Musketeers~_ **

 It was slow moving through the streets of Paris.  The storm had abated but the rain had returned and neither Porthos nor Treville had their rain slickers.  Porthos did not much care, wanting to feel completely in tune with the cold, dreary weather. He wanted to feel the dampness invade his bones, he wanted to feel his cold and aching feet as they sloshed through mud, he wanted to feel wet and cumbersome.  He could not take his best friend’s pain away, so he figured the least he could do was suffer along side him.  Besides, being cold and miserable would help feed his anger, and to a degree stem any guilt he might feel at being comfortable while his friend was in pain.

 He’d been walking, head forward and with determination, since leaving the house, so he spared a quick glance at his Captain when they turned onto a busy street. Treville appeared as steadfast as he, and also did not seem to be paying any mind to the mud and rain. Porthos smiled inwardly. Treville was a good Captain. He might have his secrets, perhaps too many, but in the end, Porthos knew he kept them for good reasons, even if they had caused problems for both himself and Aramis in the past.

 Over the rain, Porthos heard a voice calling his Captain’s name.  He stopped and turned around to see a musketeer trudging quickly through the muddy street, weaving anxiously around carts and people.

 “What is it?” asked Treville, when the musketeer arrived at their side- panting and soaked through.

 “There’s been a body found,” stated the musketeer. 

 Porthos felt his stomach churn and his muscles tense.  “Where?”

 “By the east gate.”

 Porthos reflexively turned his head in that direction, knowing he would not be able to see anything but his body feeling the need to at least make a motion toward the gate. “Who?”

 The musketeer shook his head.  “No identity as of yet,” he replied.  “And probably won’t find one either.”

 Treville braced his hands on his hips.  “Why?”

 “Young woman,” stated the musketeer.  “Probably from the streets by the looks of her.  But there was something odd about what she was wearing.”

 Porthos and Treville shared a confused look.  “How so?” asked Treville.

 “She’s wearing a white nightgown.”  The musketeer paused to examine the muddy ground before continuing.  “At least, it was at one point.  It’s been thrashed to ribbons where she’s been cut open.”

 Porthos had to swallow the bile rising in his throat.  Aramis’ weapons were still not completely accounted for and he feared the answer to his next question.  “Was the weapon with the body?”

 “Yes,” replied the musketeer.  “A blade. It’s hard to tell, it’s still imbedded in her throat, but it looks like standard Musketeer issue.”

 Porthos’ anger had him clenching his jaw and digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands as he balled them into fists.  He was relieved his Captain was able to tide his own anger and speak rationally, because Porthos was on the verge of violence.

 “Who else knows?” asked Treville.

 The musketeer shook his head.  “No one. A citizen alerted one of us to the body then he disappeared.  We haven’t had time for a full investigation yet.”

 Treville nodded, then told the musketeer to take them to the body.  He wanted to keep this in-house.  If the Red Guards caught wind of this, especially with a musketeer involved, there would be more hell to pay than he thought he could handle. Besides, he knew Aramis was innocent, and being moved to the Chatelet in his condition, which was exactly something the guards would do, would be like hammering the final nail in the coffin.  He just hoped he could keep all of this quiet long enough to find the culprit and clear Aramis’ name.

 But if bodies were going to be left around the city, in public places, it was going to be a very difficult task.

  ** _-Musketeers-_**

 Aramis’ anger toward Constance was misguided, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop it from invading his mind and radiating out to the furthest tips of his limbs. Part of him wanted it to subside, for it made him feel guilty, but part of him was enjoying it. It made him want to move, want to get up, want to release his pent up energy through physical exertion.

 He flexed his injured hand several times, enjoying the sharp pain it sent through his stiff fingers and up into his neck.  He fought through it and made a full fist for the first time and it made him smile- igniting his hope that perhaps not all was lost.  But when he released his fist his hand cramped and he had to use his other to massage the soreness away just so he could open it again. He did not let that completely dishearten him, for it had been progress and he wanted to see what else he could accomplish.

 Carefully, he sat up and slowly swung his legs to the floor.  His right foot touched the floorboards without incident, but when the balls of his left foot touched down, a splintering pain shot upward into his hip. He grimaced but pushed onward, allowing more of his weight to be taken by his left leg.  Invigorated by the pain, he grunted through it and pushed himself to the edge of the bed, his anger fueling him to continue.

 The next step was to try standing, so he forced himself to swallow, harnessing the pain and using it to push himself upright.  He had to grab the bedside table for support as he wavered, and his left leg was barely taking any of his weight, but he felt good.  It was like an instant change within him, all his anger suddenly transformed into hope and excitement and it fueled him even more to want to stand upright, and perhaps, even try taking a few steps.

 Slowly, he righted his body and his hand naturally came off the bedside table. He was standing fully, but he had yet to place his left foot completely on the ground and bear it’s share of his weight.

 Risking everything, Aramis braced as he put his weight down.  The pain was there; in his hip, across his abdomen and into his back, but he didn’t care.  He’d come this far and he couldn’t stop.

 He put it all on the line and released all his weight till he was standing evenly. He threw his head back, his mouth open in silent scream but he held fast.  After a few moments the sharpness of the pain began to dull and turn into a deep throbbing.  Righting his head, he gripped his hip and drew in a deep breath.   

 Feeling alive, he slowly moved his left foot forward to take a step, a grin spread across his features with each inch he acquired, and he was all but smiling by the time he had to transfer his weight.

 Aramis did it quickly, almost like a hop so as not to tempt fate.  He’d made a step and he felt his hope rising more steadily now. But as he moved his leg forward again, dizziness began to creep across his head and he felt himself waver. He stretched out his arms to regain his balance and continued to move his left leg.  Now that he had achieved so much, he felt nothing could stop him.

 Slowly, he transferred his weight back onto his left leg, but this time the pain became sharp and his stomach felt the repercussions as it roiled and clenched.

 Aramis closed his eyes, his smile turning into a determined line and tried to force the nausea and pain away.  He continued to put his weight forward but when he was almost there his leg collapsed beneath him.

 There was no warning, not even any extraneous pain, only a complete failure of his leg to carry his weight.  He lurched forward trying to catch himself on the door, but he missed and it slammed shut. His head spun and his stomach revolted and he could not keep himself upright any longer.  He collapsed against the door and slid down slowly as his peripheral vision began to blacken.

 And as he fell, his hope fell as well.

  **To be Continued…**


	7. Chapter 7

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**VII.**

 D’Artagnan roamed the streets and back alleys of the city, enduring the insufferable wetness and cold with each passing minute.  He had never failed to fulfill one of Athos’ instructions before, but Porthos and Treville had, apparently, disappeared into the abyss that was Paris. He hadn’t been able to find them, so reluctantly, and with many misgivings, he decided his best course of action would be to return home, knowing they would all find their way there eventually.

 He arrived at the house to find Constance in a panic.  He dropped Aramis’ weapons on the table and quickly joined her at the door to his old room.

 “Help me get the door open,” she huffed, before d’Artagnan had a chance to ask.  “Aramis is trapped on the other side.”

 D’Artagnan wedged his shoulder into the small opening Constance had been able to obtain, and carefully pushed it open further.  The door slid open easily with his added strength, so he slipped his head around the corner to check if it was safe to fully open the door.

 Aramis was leaning against the door with his legs tucked under him.  His head was down and he was unconscious. D’Artagnan did not want to push on the door any more in case it knocked his friend over, so he carefully squeezed himself through the small opening.   

 “What happened?” he asked Constance, as he quickly checked on Aramis.

 Constance stood and tried to squeeze herself through after d’Artagnan, but her skirts were getting in the way so she remained in the other room.  “We had a fight,” she admitted.  “Then I left and he slammed the door.  Next thing I knew, he was passed out and I couldn’t get in.”

 D’Artagnan pulled Aramis carefully away from the door and laid him flat.  “What were you fighting about?” he asked, sparing her a fleeting glance as she was finally able to enter the room. 

 Constance knelt down beside Aramis and laid a hand on his cheek as worry lines creased her own forehead. “It’s not important, “ she replied.

 Having found a steady pulse, and seeing Aramis breathe regularly, d’Artagnan made to move him closer to the bed.  “I think it is important,” he stated, heaving Aramis into a sitting position so he could get under his arms.  Then he nodded for Constance to grab his legs.  “Something made him mad enough to cross the room and slam the door.”

 Constance deposited Aramis legs on the bed and stepped back.  “You think this is my fault?” she spat, incredulously.

 “That’s not what I meant,” sighed d’Artagnan, as he sat on the far side of the bed. He put a hand on Aramis brow to check for a fever and was relieved to not find one.  Then he looked at Constance pleadingly over Aramis prone form. “I just meant the argument must have been substantial enough to warrant him getting out of bed when he has no right to be up and about.”

 “We both said some things we didn’t mean,” she replied softly, as she gazed down at Aramis. He seemed peaceful in sleep, and she hoped he truly was, but even more so, she hoped she was right and Aramis hadn’t meant what he had said about her.

 D’Artagnan watched her, recognizing both regret and pity in her expression. It really wasn’t any of his business what they had spoken about, but if it was enough to upset Constance and cause injury to Aramis, he felt justified in pushing the matter.

 “Well, if you’re not going to tell me, then perhaps he will,” he said, holding Aramis by the shoulders and giving him a gentle shake.  “Aramis. Aramis.  Open your eyes.”

 Constance wrung her hands. She sat on the edge of the bed and absently began massaging the injured musketeer’s left hand. Aramis had not awoken, but he was moving on his own now, turning his head away each time d’Artagnan gently tapped his cheek.

 She shook her head in worry as Aramis attempted to open his eyes, but they fluttered closed again. “Perhaps I should fetch the doctor,” she said.

 D’Artagnan nodded solemnly.  “I agree.”

 “I’m fine.”

 Surprised, Constance and d’Artagnan looked down at Aramis.  His eyes were straining to remain open, but he was obviously alert now, although his voice was barely audible.

 “I’m fine,” he whispered again, slowly pulling his hand away from Constance to join his other in massaging his temples.

 Constance felt momentarily rejected as he pulled his hand away, thinking he might still be angry with her. “You scared me,” she admonished lightly. “Don’t do that again.”

 Aramis didn’t respond, instead his eyes wandered to d’Artagnan.  He wasn’t sure when the Gascon had arrived, and was even more unsure what he had heard.  He looked back to Constance with a questioning gaze.  Her reply was a subtle shake of her head, which allowed Aramis to relax.

 “What made you try and get up on your own?” d’Artagnan asked, with the slightest of scowls.

 “I simply wanted to stand,” replied Aramis impassively, his voice merely a scratchy whisper. “What was I thinking?”

 D’Artagnan deepened his scowl, then turned to Constance and asked if she could fetch some water. When she left, d’Artagnan folded his arms over his chest and stared at his friend so intensely, Aramis thought he might actually combust.

 “I know you two were arguing about something,” he started, in a level voice.  “I don’t know what the argument was about, and Constance doesn’t seem to want me to know, and at this point I really don’t care anymore. But what I do want, is for you to apologize to her, regardless of what it was about.”

 Aramis opened his mouth to speak, but d’Artagnan shushed him harshly.  “She has been generous enough to help nurse you back to health…”

 “I will,” said Aramis, but d’Artagnan continued to speak over him.

 “So whatever was said between the two of…”

 “I agree,” whispered Aramis, unable to strain his voice any louder.

 But d’Artagnan wasn’t listening.  “… sort it out and apologize.”

 Waiting to see if he was done, Aramis paused a beat before trying to speak again. “You’re right. And I will.”   He chose his words carefully so he could keep his speech to a minimum.

 “I will get her now,” d’Artagnan said.

 “Wait,” urged Aramis, straining his throat.  “What did you find?”

 D’Artagnan sighed as he watched his friend struggle with his words.  Maybe now wasn’t the time to be getting into a discussion, he thought wearily.  But if he was Aramis, he’d want to know, so he decided to apprise him of the situation, even though he didn’t know much himself.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 Constance figured she would give them a few minutes to address the argument, and then to discuss what, if anything, had been found at the blacksmith’s shop. She sat at the table as she poured out a cup of water for Aramis and nearly spilled the contents of the jug all over herself when Athos walked in.  “You scared the hell out of me,” she said, clutching a hand to her chest.

 “My apologies,” bowed Athos, and then quickly made his way toward the bedroom.

 “I’d give them a second,” warned Constance, but Athos merely looked at her briefly before entering the room anyway.

 The moment he saw Aramis, with d’Artagnan sitting on the bed next to him, he knew something was wrong.  “What happened?” he asked, running his eyes up and down his injured friend.

 Aramis waved off the concern and swallowed gently.  “Nothing,” he said, in a clipped whisper.

 D’Artagnan contemplated his response as his mentor looked to him for assurance. Aramis hadn’t exactly lied to Athos, and since the situation seemed to be remedied, he decided not to betray the marksman’s confidence.  “Nothing. I was telling him about the girls and he… he became a little distraught.”

 Athos eyed them wearily, but he really had no time for games, so he got to the point. “Levesque,” he said brusquely. “Antoine Levesque.”

 D’Artagnan sprang from the bed.  “That’s where we’ve seen the white dresses!  On the girls he was auctioning!”

 “But he’s dead,” whispered Aramis, his shock evident through the softness of his voice.

 “I beg to differ,” replied Athos.  “Or he’s somehow found a way to take out his revenge from beyond the grave.”

 Aramis closed his eyes and pushed his head into the pillow.  He grasped the bed sheets as he concentrated on taking very steady breaths. He wasn’t sure which concerned him more, the fact that Levesque may still be alive or how Porthos would react.

 “Thought you’d be more angry than that,” stated Athos dryly, looking down at his friend. He’d surmised the name alone would have Aramis jumping from the bed and storming out of the hose.

 “Need a moment,” whispered Aramis, then he released the sheets with is left hand and fluttered his fingers beside his head.  “Still sinking in.”

 At the sound of his friend’s strained voice, Athos eyes him wearily.  “What really happened?” he asked, looking at d’Artagnan for answers.

 “Nothing,” replied the Gascon.

 Athos frowned and leaned over the bed.  Aramis had his eyes open now, but his expression was pained.  “What?  Tell me.”

 Aramis shook his head dismissively.  “Just over used,” he whispered, pointing to his throat.

 Athos frowned, still not believing he’d heard the truth, but he silently commended the Gascon’s acting skills, they’d certainly improved since the Marsac incident.

 “What’s going on?” asked Constance, entering the room with a cup of water in her hand. She pushed past Athos so she could sit on the edge of the bed, and placed the cup on the side table.

 “Apparently nothing,” replied the Comte.

 Constance huffed out a breath of air.  “Nothing,” she mocked. “It’s all _nothing_ and _fine_ with you men. Well, you can have your secrets, but have them in the other room.  If you’re done talking about the important matters, Aramis needs his rest.”

 Before anyone could obey her orders, Aramis pulled her gently down to him and whispered very softly in her ear.  “Talk with Athos,” he said. “He knows… And I am sorry.” He placed a hand over his heart before finishing.  “Truly, sorry.”

 Constance studied the look in his eyes and knew he meant what he had said.  She pressed her lips thin, nodded with a wink, and then mouthed the words, _thank you_.

 Then she stood up, passed the cup of water to d’Artagnan and grabbed Athos by the elbow and began leading him into the other room.

 “Wait,” called d’Artagnan. “What’d he say?”

 Constance looked back over her shoulder.  “Nothing,” she replied, and then disappeared around the corner with Athos in tow.

**_~Musketeers~_ **

 Athos was nearly dragged into the main room and ordered to sit down.  Constance bustled about, and then she put two glasses on the table and a bottle of wine. 

 “Pour,” she directed Athos, who complied without hesitation. 

 Constance chose a seat in clear view of d’Artagnan’s old room and the staircase so she could watch for interlopers and sat down.  She stared at Athos, opened her mouth to speak, but filled it with the entire contents of her glass instead.  She then continued to stare.

 It was rare for Athos to feel uncomfortable, but he found himself squirming under her scrutiny. He cleared his throat, cleaned his glass in one mouthful and then leaned back in his chair.  Constance was still staring and Athos did not have time to dawdle.

 “I assume Aramis did not merely say _nothing_ ,” he sighed.

 “He told me to speak to you.”

 “About?”

 “Her Majesty and the dauphin.”

 “Oh.”

 “That’s exactly what he said,” she replied, finally breaking eye contact to pour them each another drink.

 Athos turned his newly filled glass slowly on the table and watched as the dark liquid sloshed about. He cursed Aramis for putting him in this position and then quickly emptied the wine into his stomach. “How did you find out?” he asked, as he put the glass back down.

 “The Queen told me.”

 Athos was finding it hard to see the point of this conversation.  “Why do you need to speak with me about this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 “Because I have to talk to someone or I’ll burst,” she replied.

 “I’m not one for gossiping,” stated Athos, as he began to rise from his chair.

 “Sit.”

 Athos sat back down.

 “I don’t want to gossip,” she snapped.  “I just want to know how this could have happened?  And what’s going to happen?  Who else knows?” She paused to take a deep breath and leaned over the table.  “I thought maybe it had something to do with Aramis being attacked and it scared the living daylights out of me.”

 “I assure you, their affair has nothing to do with what happened to Aramis,” he said, putting a hand on her forearm.  “We suspect someone specific now and I assure you, he’s not going to get away with it.”

 “Good,” nodded Constance.

 “And as far as I know, we are the only ones who know about what happened that night at the convent,” he finished.

 Constance sat back shaking her head.  “Of all the places…” she said, wearily.

 Athos rolled his eyes. “In Mother Superior’s bed, no less.”

 “What?” cried Constance, and then she lowered her voice.  “She was that distraught she would…”

 “You mean, he,” corrected Athos.

 Constance pulled her head back.  “He? I thought it was the Queen who needed comforting?”

 Athos gave the slightest of shrugs before answering.  “Perhaps she did,” he said.  “But Aramis needed it more. A woman he once loved, and thought lost forever, had just died in his arms a few hours prior.”

 Constance’s lips parted slightly and she didn’t blink for several seconds.  “What?  I… I just figured…”

 “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”  Athos braced his hands on the table to push himself up, but Constance stilled him by grabbing his forearm.

 “You’ve said just enough,” she breathed.  “I was blaming Aramis for this whole mess.”

 Athos tilted his head. “I may be out of the loop these days, but I’m still quite certain it takes two.” 

 Suddenly, Athos was struck with a realization and he sat up abruptly.  “You weren’t thinking Aramis took the Queen without consent?” he asked, his voice heavy with anger.

 Constance quickly dismissed the idea by waving her hand.  “No, no, never.  He’s a charmer that one, but he’s about as honorable as they come.”

 Appeased, Athos shrugged lightly.  “Give or take a married woman or two.”

 Constance glared at him and he felt the blood rush to his face. 

 “Forgive me,” he said, and then quickly filled their glasses with more wine and emptied his before she had the chance to speak.

 “So the Queen is just as much to blame for this,” she said quietly, staring at the table.

 “Do not think less of her,” stated Athos.

 Constance frowned and shook her head.  “Of course not.”

 Athos raised both his eyebrows.  “You thought less of Aramis, did you not?”

 Constance took in a sharp breath and brought up her hand to cover her gaping mouth. “You’re right,” she replied, her heart quickening in her chest.  She felt near nauseous for having thought so little of him, and it made her limbs shake when she realized Aramis had thrown himself on the sword to protect her reputation. “I think it’s me who owes him an apology now.”

 Athos furrowed his brow, but Constance waved him off before he could inquire about the comment. “It’s not important,” she said, dismissively.

 “Well, at least it’s not _nothing_ ,” stated Athos, as he rose from the table.  “Now, I really need to get back.”

 Again, Constance waved him off, too lost in thought to articulate any words.

 Athos bid her good-bye with a slight bow, thanked her for the wine, and then returned to his brothers in the other room.

 He entered to find Aramis sitting up nursing a cup of water, and greeted him with a curt nod. The marksman seemed tranquil, but not at all in a good way.  His exhaustion was evident, and also logical, but Athos could sense something else bringing the marksman down.  

 “When do we leave?” asked Aramis, with a dejected voice.

 D’Artagnan shook his head as he stared at the floor.  “If only you could,” he replied.

 “How far do you think you can handle?” asked Athos.

 Aramis drew in a breath and pushed it out sullenly.  “Apparently, the door.”

 “And even that is questionable,” added d’Artagnan.

 Athos watched Aramis carefully.  The Comte knew where the conversation was leading, and he wanted to gauge the marksman’s reaction, if only to verify his suspicions concerning the marksman’s countenance.

 “We’re just going to have to fight this one for you,” stated the Gascon.

 And there it was, the crack in Aramis’ façade, the smallest of twitches in his eye.

 Athos felt sympathy pains in the pit of his stomach, and he was pretty sure d’Artagnan did as well.

 The marksman’s nightmare had come true. 

 Aramis was being told to stay behind while his brothers went out to fight. 

  **To be Continued…**


	8. Chapter 8

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

VIII. 

 

The atmosphere in the Bonacieux home was palpable.  Dusk had arrived and the fireplace lit, leaving a soft glow around the room, making visible the faces of four somber men sitting around the table. They picked at the supper Constance had prepared, but were much more partial to the wine d’Artagnan provided. Porthos and Treville had arrived a short while ago with news of the dead woman, but unfortunately had not learned anything else by visiting the crime scene, other than the knife used to kill the poor woman most likely belonged to Aramis. 

 Athos filled them in concerning his and d’Artagnan’s trip to the blacksmith’s shop, and his suspicions concerning Antoine Levesque, and it had left Porthos livid. It had taken quite some time, including some physical restraint to contain the man, but eventually he settled with the promise from both Treville and Athos, that justice would be served.  

 With Constance assisting the doctor with Aramis in the other room, the four musketeers continued to drink in silence, broken only by the occasional remark or murmuring. Each man at the table had their own reasons for remaining quiet, but the common denominator was how to catch Levesque, and of course, Aramis’ recently dispirited countenance.

 The marksman had spent most of the early evening in muted solitude, fixated on the darkening sky outside the window beside his bed.  He had not tried to get up again, nor was he working to better the flexibility of his left had.  He merely stared out of the window as if in silent conversation with what seemed to be the ever-present storm clouds. When night had fallen, the clouds were no longer visible but their masking of the stars proved their existence. Porthos had tried to distract his friend with idle conversation, even attempting to get his friend interested in a game of cards, but Aramis would have no part.

 “He’s being too quiet,” stated Porthos, finishing off the wine in his glass and refilling it. “I don’t like it. He’s not supposed to be quiet.”

 Athos sat leaning over the table nursing his cup.  He raised his eyes but not his head as he replied.  “This is hard for him.”

 He did not want to betray his brother’s trust and expose the possible consequence of Aramis’ predicament, for neither of them knew for sure what would happen, but so far, it wasn’t looking good.  Although not much time had passed for the healing to truly take hold, it certainly wasn’t promising that Aramis could barely bear weight yet, nor hold something in his left hand for any prolonged amount of time.  He could hold a cup of water, perhaps bring it to his lips to take a sip, but then his hand would cramp and the cup would fall or he’d have to brace it with his other hand.  Watching the marksman struggle was painful for Athos to watch, but Porthos was right. Seeing him laconic and withdrawn as if he’d given up was much worse.  

Typically, Aramis would be the first one to encourage everyone to push on or to fight, or to say something to make you smile when there was nothing but darkness surrounding you. Whether he was tired or lively, injured or well, Aramis would not disappoint anyone, especially his fellow musketeers.  

 Athos recalled a conversation d’Artagnan had told him about back in Pinon. Aramis had confessed to him how much he enjoyed the fight.  Not for justice, not for the innocent, but for the fight itself.  It made him feel alive.  So there was a part of Athos who was beginning to think Aramis had not just given up the fight to be a musketeer, but indeed, given up on himself.

 Constance rushed into the room, breaking the near silence, and slowed to a stop when she noticed the somberness of those around her table.  They all looked at her, waiting for an explanation for her hurriedness.  She picked up her pace again as she went to the window.

 “He’s in a mood,” she huffed, washing her hands and drying them on a nearby tea towel.

 “The Doctor?” inquired d’Artagnan.

 “No. Aramis,” replied Constance. “If he’s not outright ignoring you, he’s being outright rude.”

 “He’s probably bored cooped up in here,” suggested d’Artagnan.  “He’s a man of action.  He does not do well idling.”

 “Or he’s just drunk,” huffed Constance.

 Four sets of eyes turned to her from the table and she felt quite unsettled, but only briefly.  “The doctor gave him a bottle of wine,” she explained.  “Figured he should start drinking something, and if it could help numb the pain, why not wine.”

 As if on cue, there was a loud smash from the other room followed by the Doctor scurrying out the door.  When composed, he was greeted by the same four sets of eyes that had previously been staring incredulously at Constance.  “Right, then,” the doctor said, smoothing down the front of his coat before straightening his hair. “I think I will come back later when he is not so… temperamental.”  The doctor then made his way toward the stairs and hurried himself out of the door.

 Athos let out a long breath.  “I believe Aramis is out of wine,” he said.

 “How do you know?” asked d’Artagnan.

 Athos rose from the table.  “I’m quite familiar with the sound of a bottle smashing against a wall.”  He walked over to a cupboard where he knew the wine was kept and retrieved a full bottle.  “That one sounded about a quarter full,” he surmised.  “I’ll bring him a new one.”

 As he made his way back across the room, the other musketeers stood to join him. He waved them off, insisting he do this alone.  “We still need to find Levesque,” he said.  “Perhaps you three can search him out while I tend to our inebriated friend.”

 Athos figured there would have been a bigger fight, but truthfully, he was the one with the most experience regarding Aramis’ condition, so they eventually relented and left the house in search of Antoine.  Aramis had mentioned that when he was being held captive, he could smell a strong scent of stale alcohol on his attackers, so Treville suggested they start looking in the surrounding taverns. 

 When they had all taken their leave, Athos gave Constance a curt nod before stepping into d’Artagnan’s old room and closing the door carefully behind him.

 Aramis was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the door and it gave Athos pause to see him upright, albeit, leaning forward with his head hanging over his knees. If the marksman was aware of his presence, he didn’t show it as Athos slowly approached the bed. He looked at the wall beside the window and noticed a large red stain with liquid dripping slowly downward. On the floor lay the remnants of a broken bottle.

 From behind the marksman, Athos slid the full bottle he had in his hand down the front of Aramis’ left shoulder.  “I implore you not to waste this one,” he said.

 After a moment, Aramis reached up with his right hand and pulled the bottle from his grasp.   He yanked the cork out with his teeth and spat it onto the floor before drinking greedily.

 “Glad to see your throat doesn’t hurt anymore,” observed Athos, walking around the bed and settling himself on the window ledge so he could face his friend.

 “It hurts like hell,” replied Aramis, his voice gruff as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 Athos crossed his legs at his ankles and his arms over his chest.  “You’re sitting.  That’s good.”

 Aramis didn’t reply, instead he took another long drink from the bottle of wine.

 “The men have gone out in search of Levesque,” stated Athos.

 Again, Aramis didn’t reply, but this time he looked up at him and Athos nearly cringed. He didn’t look pale. He hadn’t been crying. He simply looked defeated.

 Athos had learned a long time ago that the best way to get a person to talk was to simply let them, so he remained leaning against the window ledge without saying anything further.  After several long minutes, wherein neither of them spoke nor moved, Aramis finally broke the silence.

 “Can I have your pistol?”

 “No.”

 Several more minutes passed and this time it was Athos who broke the silence.

 “Why?”

 Instead of answering, Aramis took another long drink and then passed the bottle to Athos.  “Does this really work?” he asked.  “Does it ever truly make you feel better?”

 Athos tilted the bottle back and let the warm wine slide down his throat. “Not ever,” he replied, when his thirst was sated.  “But I’m willing to keep trying for the sake of research.”

 Aramis reached for the bottle and Athos released it back into his grasp. “I tried to walk today,” the marksman said quietly.  “That is what you walked in on earlier with d’Artagnan.”

 “I take it, it did not go well.”

 Aramis shook his head, partook in another swig of the wine and then placed the bottle on the floor. With his left hand he reached toward Athos.  “May I have your pistol?”

 Athos sighed, having no intention of answering the question. 

 Dropping his hand, Aramis picked the bottle back up and took a large gulp. “I could barely stand.”

 “It hasn’t been long enough,” replied Athos. 

 “Any other words of wisdom you’d like to share?”

 Athos drew in a deep breath and glanced away briefly before resting his eyes back on his friend.  “Time heals all wounds,” he said suggestively.

 Aramis frowned as he looked up at him.  “That’s all you’ve got?”

 “Give me a moment,” replied Athos, pondering the question.  After a moment, he graced the marksman with, “Good things come to those who wait…?”

 Aramis couldn’t help but grimace.  “You really are terrible at this.”

 Athos shrugged non-committedly.  “Really? I’ve been told I have a way with words,” he replied with a knowing smile.  Then he pushed away from the window, picked up the empty bottle and made his way toward the door.  At the threshold he turned back and noticed that Aramis had not moved.  He still sat facing the wall, his shoulders slumped low with his head hanging down.  Athos was about to say something but was interrupted when Aramis turned back to him.

 “I only wanted to hold it,” the marksman said quietly, not actually making eye contact with him.  “To see if I could still pull the hammer back.”

 Athos looked down at his pistol hanging on his belt.  It wasn’t loaded. 

 Walking back across the room he pulled it out, but instead of giving it to Aramis, he placed it on the window ledge where he had recently been sitting. “If you want it, you are going to have to get up and retrieve it yourself.”

 After sharing a challenging look with the marksman, Athos returned to the door. But this time, he was not interrupted when he turned back to address his friend.  “By the way,” he began, speaking to the back of his friend’s head. “We both know war with Spain is inevitable, and I can not picture myself riding into battle without you by my side.”

 Aramis glanced over his shoulder.

 “With what has happened to you, I’ve actually tried, but I can’t see it. I cannot see a future without you fighting along-side me, or your brothers.  Nor do I wish it. ”  Athos said nothing further after that, closing the door behind him as he left.

**_~Musketeers~_ **

 Having previously been separated, Treville and Porthos met up in a crowded square, both deflated and frustrated by their lack of headway.  They were waiting for d’Artagnan to arrive when the captain dropped his head and shook it slowly. 

 “We’ve exhausted every possible drinking hole I can think of,” he sighed, “and we found nothing.”

 “Yeah, and now I need a drink,” said Porthos, in lieu of a real answer.

 Treville narrowed his eyes, and then decided he could actually use one himself, despite having spent the last few hours surrounded by alcohol and drunkards. He fell into step with Porthos as he headed toward the closest- and last tavern on their list, hoping d’Artagnan would think to find them inside.  When they stepped inside the establishment, their attention was immediately drawn to a man leaning against the main bar causing a commotion. Treville hung his head. He was in no mood to settle any disputes that did not directly involve their case.

Porthos obviously felt the same for he was staring at the ceiling and shaking his head. “Maybe this wasn’t…”  

 He stopped mid-sentence and Treville looked at him.  The captain followed the musketeer’s gaze toward the man at the bar who had turned to face them.   Treville didn’t recognize the man, but Porthos apparently did.

 “So it’s true?” growled Porthos.  “You are alive.”

 The man at the counter had the good sense to be afraid, but only momentarily for he quickly squared his shoulders and snarled.  “’Bout time you showed up,” he said.  “Guess you have to walk the dog sometime.”

 Treville reached out with both arms to stop Porthos from charging forth.  “Who is this?” he demanded, not releasing his hold on the bristling musketeer, despite actually wanting to.

 Porthos did not break his glare with the man at the bar when he answered his captain. “I’m pretty sure ‘es the one doing this to Aramis,” he seethed.

 Treville did not doubt Porthos, but he needed more.  And he needed it sooner rather than later because they were slowly being surrounded by heavily armed men.  “Porthos!” he yelled, snapping the musketeer’s attention to him.  “Who is this man?”

 “Antoine Levesque,” Porthos said slowly, as he turned to his captain.  “You remember?  My half-sister’s husband, and someone I thought dead.”

 Levesque patted his gut with a sneer.  “Not that your dear father didn’t try,” he replied.  “But it takes more than a stomach shot to take me down.  And as for that pretty little wife of mine, she cast me out for all the wealth she stood to inherit.”

 “Good,” said Porthos. “At least she did something right.”

 Levesque threw his mug across the room, shattering it against the stone wall, and stepped forward in a rage.  “We had a good thing going till you and your friend showed up!  Aramis had no right poking his nose in my business!  I lost everything because of him!”

 Porthos lurched forward. “Oh, it was his business all right!” he growled, almost breaking free from his captain’s grasp. “You didn’t get half of what you deserved for what you did!”

 Treville pushed his musketeer toward the door, his worried gaze vigilant as more armed men began to surround them.  “Easy, Porthos,” he whispered.  “We’ll sort this matter out, trust me, but there are only two of us, and he seems to be amassing an army in here.”

 “I like them odds,” stated Porthos, an eager glint flashing in his eyes.

 “Then I’ll make it an order,” replied Treville, now using considerable force to usher his musketeer to safety.

 Porthos retreated reluctantly after seeing the look in his captain’s eyes, but he couldn’t stop himself from antagonizing Levesque further.  “I’ll be back for you!” he shouted over his captain’s shoulder as he was shoved out the door.  “And bring your army, just more for me to kill!” 

 The people outside the tavern cleared away when Porthos started pacing.  Unable to control his fury, he balled his hands into fists and lashed out at Treville.  “Why aren’t we arresting him?” he shouted.  “Or killing ‘em?”

 Porthos made an abrupt move back toward the tavern, but Treville stepped in front of him. “In good time,” the captain said, hands raised in warning for him not to move. 

 “All those innocent girls sold as sex slaves!” shouted the large musketeer, his coiled muscles straining against his leathers as he tried to side step his captain. “Then he kidnaps and attacks Aramis!”

 Treville had to use force to keep his musketeer at bay, and when he finally showed signs of self- restraint, Treville dropped his head and moved his hands to rest on his hips. He understood Portho’s anger and need for justice, but they had to be smart about this.  Levesque may be a lowly thug, but he was ambitious, which meant he was dangerous.  Aramis had stumbled upon a very intricate and lucrative sex slave ring Levesque had been running with his wife and Porthos’ father not too long ago.  His musketeers had put a stop to it, but as far as Treville knew, the only one left unscathed was Eleanor, the half-sister. “I thought your father killed him?” asked Treville.

 “So did I,” replied Porthos, back to pacing before his captain.  “Stomach shot,” he continued.  “Lucky bastard obviously survived.”

 Treville rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the options.  Levesque certainly had motive to ruin Aramis’ life, and he was certainly capable of killing young women, but in order to arrest him, they would need much more manpower than just the two of them.

 “Porthos,” Treville said finally.  “Go back, gather reinforcements.  I’ll wait here for d’Artagnan and keep an eye on Levesque and his men.”

 Porthos shook his head, a smirk marring his features.  “Oh, I would much prefer to stay here, Cap’n,” he said, glaring at the door to the tavern.

 “I’m sure you would,” replied Treville.  “That’s why I need you to go.”

 Porthos grumbled and kicked at the dirt, his anger barely containable.  “He better not get away with this,” he said, pointing at stern finger at his captain.

 Treville grabbed him by the shoulders and made sure he had his undivided attention. “Porthos,” he said steadily. “I understand. Believe me I do. What he did to those girls is unforgivable. But he also went after one of my musketeers, and for that, I’ll make sure he sees the hang-mans noose.”

 Porthos stared into his captain’s eyes and registered his genuine commitment. He huffed out a breath, stepped back and tried to calm himself.   After a moment he nodded solemnly and apologized for his behavior. He knew his captain was right, the two of them, no matter how much rage fueled them- were no match for Levesque and his gang.  Although, there was a small part of him that thought it might be fun to try.

 He bid his captain good-bye and left the square to gather reinforcements.  But it wasn’t to the garrison he was heading, it was to his brothers back at Constance’s house.

 Treville turned to head back into the tavern.  He pushed the door open, pausing in the mantle to look around.  His stomach dropped the instant he noticed Levesque and his men were gone.

 “Oh, this did not just happen,” Treville said quietly as his hand came to rest on his forehead.

 “What didn’t just happen?”

 Treville turned to see d’Artagnan standing behind him, the tavern door not even closed yet. “Where were you two minutes ago?” he sighed in frustration.

 D’Artagnan looked at him bewildered.

 “Never mind,” dismissed Treville.  He turned the young musketeer around and pushed him back out the door.  “Go back to the house and let them know we’ve found Levesque.”

 D’Artagnan stumbled back into the street under his captain’s force, not just bewildered, but also shocked. “What?  Here?” he asked, trying to see past his captain into the tavern.

 Treville dismissed the inquiry and reiterated his order.  “Just do as I say, please,” he said, pointing in the direction of the Bonacieux home.  “I don’t have time to explain.”

 D’Artagnan wavered a few short moments, then nodded and took off in a run toward his lodgings.

 Treville turned back into the tavern when his musketeer disappeared into the crowd. He took a steadying breath and approached the bar, hoping to glean information from the barkeep on where Levesque might have gone.  The barkeep pointed to the back door and said he and his men had left just after they did, but didn’t know where they were headed.

 Treville had a pretty good idea where they had gone, and instantly feared for Porthos’ life. He quickly ran outside to see if he could catch Porthos, but he was long gone.  So he cut through the square, paying no mind to those who got in his way and headed straight for the garrison hoping to catch his musketeer before it was too late.

**_~Musketeers~_ **

 Levesque circled around behind the tavern alone, having sent his men out to gather some rather, delicate, armor.  He did not want to risk being seen, so he kept to the shadows and archways as he followed Porthos through the streets of Paris.  There were several occasions where he could have killed the large musketeer, and it took most of his self control not to, but that would come later. First, he needed his desire for revenge on Aramis to be sated, then he would eliminate Porthos for pleasure. But for now, he needed the man alive so he could trail him back to where the others were staying.

 He knew they weren’t harboring at the garrison.  He and his men had staked it out, and were much relieved to not find them there. The place was like a fortress, too well defended for him and his men.  Levesque’s plan to draw Aramis out would take a finesse the garrison would not accommodate, and also a very dark heart on his part, both of which he truly believed he possessed, but he had to know where they were staying first.

 He pulled back into a doorway when he noticed Porthos stop beside a well and look around. Levesque could see no other musketeers in the vicinity and wondered what the large man was looking for. Then he saw him look up to a window of a house.  Levesque followed his gaze, but saw nothing of importance.  Then Porthos made his way toward the door of the house.  A few moments later, Levesque could see his broad stature in the window.  

 A few minutes later, he saw a young, lean man running up to the door- his pauldron visible on his shoulder. “Another damn musketeer,” smiled Levesque.  “This is definitely where they are hiding out.”  Then he pushed himself out of the doorway and back the way he came.

**To be Continued…**


	9. Chapter 9

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**IX.**

 Aramis felt a coldness sweep through him as he sat on the edge of the bed.  He knew he no longer had a fever, and thought perhaps the storm outside, or more than likely the dissipating effects of the wine, were causing his discomfort.

 He looked around for the bottle Athos had brought him and then remembered he had taken it with him when he left.  Dejected, he stared at his bandaged left hand and yearned for the wine.  He knew it had been a long shot, knew at best the alcohol would only grant him a temporary reprieve.  And he knew that when it wore off he would be no better than he was before. But for a short while, he had wanted nothing more than that, a chance to rise above his pain and heartache and feel like himself again.

 He raised his head for the first time since his friend had departed and resumed his quiet discourse with the clouds outside.  Before the night had taken purchase, Aramis had seen them dark and hanging low, full of pitiless rain and he knew another downpour was coming.  But there could never be enough rain in Paris to wash away his sullen mood, nor enough heat in the house to stave off his suddenly chilled bones.

 With a resigned sigh, and ache filled grunt, he moved to the foot of the bed and leaned over to pick up the forsaken sweater from the previous night.  His left hand stiff, and his fingers un-coordinated, he pulled it over his head and adjusted it on his shoulders.  It was a tad too long, but it’s warm, encompassing nature made him feel a little better. 

 Unfortunately now that the wine was starting to wear off, and with it, the mild relief of pain, the crushing weight of emotional despondency was clouding his mind once again and he wanted nothing more than to sleep.  He had tried for quite sometime, lying motionless on the bed and breathing as deeply as his lungs would allow.  He’d even come close several times as his body numbed and his thoughts lost their footing, but he could not cross over the veil.  A sharp pain in his hip would ignite his senses, or the words with which Athos had taken his leave, would yank him back to wakefulness and leave him restless.

 Running his hands through his hair to push it back out of his eyes, he gritted his teeth in frustration. He glanced out the window, now hoping for the storm to return so he could feel its power, revel in its enthusiasm. He was tired of feeling dejected and hopeless.  He’d never given up before, and he didn’t much like it now.  He felt lifeless and ordinary, like someone without a purpose.

 Aramis started to yearn even more for the storm to materialize, wanting the air to bristle with electricity, feel it on his skin and re-ignite his notoriously vivacious disposition.   

 But nothing.

 Nothing but a dark, starless night waited for him outside that window. 

**_~Musketeers~_ **

 Athos was sitting at the table with Constance when they heard a loud commotion at the front door. He was on his feet, his sword half pulled from its scabbard, when Porthos rushed into the room.

 “We found ‘im,” Porthos declared, his panting voice speaking volumes for the voracity coiled in his muscles.

 Athos sheathed his sword, approached his friend and placed both hands on his shoulders. “This is good news,” he said, leveling his gaze with the large man.  “Where is he?  And where are the others?”

 Porthos shook his head as he caught his breath.  “Treville is watching him,” he replied, and then as if on cue, someone could be heard barging up the stairs.

 The large musketeer recognized the agility of the footsteps and hitched a thumb over his shoulder without even looking.  “And d’Artagnan’s here,” he quipped.

 Athos smiled gently and briefly, then nodded a greeting to the Gascon as he entered the room.

 “Treville found Levesque,” blurted d’Artagnan, his eyes darting between the two musketeers.

 “Already ahead of ya,” replied Porthos.

 D’Artagnan huffed out a breath, he’d run all the way back for nothing.  But since his friend’s attacker was within their grasp, he decided to let it go.  “So now what?” he asked over his shoulder, as he crossed the room to greet his lover with a gentle kiss to the top of her head.  “We go after him, right?”

 Porthos made a move toward the staircase.  “Damn right we do,” he said, but a hand on his back stilled him.  He turned back to see Athos shaking his head. “You’re kidding, right?”

 “I am not,” replied Athos.

 D’Artagnan gave Constance’ shoulder a squeeze and then went to stand between his brothers. “What’s holding us back? We know where he is!”

 Porthos nodded his agreement in earnest as he pulled the Gascon with him toward the staircase.

 “Stop.”

 When the two musketeers turned back to the man who had ordered their halt, they were both confused, and their frustration was quickly gaining momentum.

 “We shouldn’t run off halfcocked,” placated Athos, his arms firmly crossed over his chest. “It’s late and the tavern has probably closed and its patrons gone for the evening.”

 “Treville was watching him,” declared d’Artagnan, motioning them all toward the door. “He’ll know where they’ve gone if they left.”

 Athos stood his ground and eyed them both wearily.  “If Levesque left, and Treville followed him, where, pray tell, are they now?”

 Porthos’ eagerness deflated almost instantly.  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

 “Me neither,” added d’Artagnan.

 “Well, that’s why I’m here,” smiled Athos, although there was no joy behind his words. “Firstly, I think we should wait for the Captain…”

 “Firstly,” interrupted Constance, rising from the table.  “You should tell Aramis.”

 The three musketeers looked at each other, equally unsure if that was the best course of action. It was d’Artagnan who spoke up, since he was, after all, the best equipped to explain things gently to Constance.

 “Telling Aramis would only dour his mood even more,” he reasoned.  “He’s better off resting and not worrying about this right now.”

 “We shall tell him what happened after it is taken care of,” added Athos.

 “He’ll probably thank us,” supplied Porthos, with a nod of his head.

 “I certainly will not!”

 After hearing the voice calling from the other room, there was a muffled groan followed by the sound of creaking floorboards. 

 Porthos was through the open door to d’Artagnan’s old room first, arriving just in time to catch Aramis from tipping forward onto the floor.

 The others rushed in a fraction of a second later and saw him struggling to get his friend back on the bed.  

 “Easy does it,” Porthos said, having to gently restrain his friend as he attempted to break free.

 “I have every right to go after Levesque if you’ve found him,” stated Aramis, finally seated on the bed after losing the battle with his best friend.  “And I don’t appreciate being left in the dark.”

 “You can barely stand!” retorted Porthos, his anger at the situation, not his friend, tainting his voice.  He took a deep breath to ground himself, and then knelt before him.  “I know how much this hurts,” he said softly.  “I’ve been there, remember?  With Bonnaire?”

 Aramis winced. Of course he remembered the incident. He’d insisted Porthos stay behind due to his injury while the rest of them went after the slave trader. He also knew that he’d been right to do so, which of course, meant Porthos was right to insist the same for him now. “All right,” he finally said, not liking it any more than he surmised Porthos had back then. “I surrender.”

 Porthos squeezed his knee.  “We won’t let you down.”

 “Levesque will get what is coming to him,” stated Athos.

 “We promise,” added d’Artagnan.

 Aramis managed a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “I have complete faith in you all,” he sighed.

 Porthos rose from the floor after giving his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then joined his brothers at the door to the room.

 “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” Aramis said, sparring a quick glance at the floor between his feet before resting his gaze back on his brothers. 

 “You do the right thing better than anyone I know,” replied Athos.

 A moment later, d’Artagnan and Porthos followed the Comte back into the other room, the latter closing the door behind him. 

 Gathered once again around the table, Porthos tried to contain the frustration he had hidden so well in the other room.  He fell short of actually keeping it all in check and pounded a fist on the table. “This is Aramis we’re talking about here! You don’t let him hide while others fight his battles.  You give him his musket and let him to do what he does best!”

 “Typically I would agree with you,” stated Athos.  “But in these circumstances, I can’t.”

 D’Artagnan walked over to the window where Constance was standing and looked out. Even with the heavy clouds he could tell the morning sun would soon be rising by the way the sky burnished in the distance over the rooftops of the Paris’ landscape.  He hadn’t realized how late, or early, it was, but he could definitely feel the toll the day had taken on his body. 

 “Neither can I,” he said, turning away from the window.  He reached out and pulled Constance toward him.  He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “As much as I wish he were, he’s not ready yet.”

 Constance patted one of his arms.  “He will be soon,” she said sympathetically.  “That man is nothing if not resilient.”

 Athos nodded, but he did not completely share in her enthusiasm.  He knew something they did not, and a part of him was starting to believe it was time to spill the secret he and Aramis shared.  He struggled with his decision, weighing both sides of the argument and determined they were equal.  Telling them Aramis might not be capable of riding again might motivate them to fight harder, but it could also make them too eager and impetuous, which in the end, would be detrimental.  Sharing with them the possibility that Aramis might lose the abilities of his left hand would do likewise, but additionally, it would make them somber, for they all knew how much Aramis was renowned for his shooting skills and how much losing that ability would crush him.

 His thoughts ran in circles forcing him to sit down.  One moment he felt he ought to tell everyone, the next, he was convinced otherwise. It was a no win situation, and as Athos continued to contemplate his dilemma, he was quite certain his expressions were evident on his usually stoic face, for d’Artagnan kept looking at him with a curious frown.  So Athos was relieved to hear the commotion of his Captain’s hurried arrival.

Treville bounded up the stairs and into the room, panting and near breathless. He bent over to brace a hand on his knee to help himself recover as he rested his other hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “Thank goodness you’re alive,” he forced out with between winded breaths.

 Porthos frowned as he looked to his Captain.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 Before Treville had a chance to answer, d’Artagnan crossed the room, his features alight with concern. “Where’s Levesque?”

 The question brought Athos and Porthos to their feet.

 “I’m sorry,” replied Treville, now able to stand upright and speak clearly without missing words.  “He was gone when I returned to the tavern.  I thought he had followed you,” he said, indicating the large musketeer.  “I ran all the way back to the garrison only to find you weren’t there.”  He paused to throw a glare toward Porthos, who reacted with a sheepish shrug. “It’s a good thing I’m no longer your Captain,” he stated.  “That would have been a violation of a direct order.”

 In Porthos’ defense, he hadn’t specifically been sent back to the garrison, only to gather reinforcements and he said as much before apologizing.

 Athos decided to leave it alone and concentrate on the fact that Levesque’s whereabouts were, again, unknown.  Ignoring the mild argument between Treville and Porthos going on behind him, Athos stood by the window with his arms braced on the sill.  He drew in a deep breath and watched the square below.  Daybreak had begun, and the residents of Paris were awakening and the square was beginning to come alive.  The sun had partially risen, and the farmers from the outlying areas were setting up their stalls to sell their wares while the early risers gathered around them to make their purchases.  It seemed a normal tableau, so therefore, it was no distraction to Athos as he stared outside the window trying to come up with a plan to find Levesque.

 A few minutes into his strategizing, d’Artagnan joined him at the window and glanced out. “Seems a little busy,” he observed casually.

 Athos turned to him. “Really?”

 “Unless there’s some sort of festival going on, which I don’t believe there is, yes it’s rather busy for this time of day,” replied d’Artagnan, bending forward to look up at the sky.  “Especially with the weather we’ve been having.”

 Thinking nothing of it, Athos pushed away from the window and turned around.  D’Artagnan did likewise, and they stood shoulder to shoulder watching the people in the room instead of those outside.   Porthos and Treville had moved past their little disagreement and were sitting at the table, both hunched forward in quiet conversation while Constance heated hot chocolate over the fire. The smell was enticing and Athos could feel his stomach growling.  He surmised everyone, maybe even Aramis, would enjoy something warm and sweet for breakfast.

 Thinking of the marksman, Athos nudged d’Artagnan gently.  “I think I’ll go check on Aramis.  I really don’t think he should be alone right now.”

 “May I join you?”

 Athos dipped his head in affirmation and together they started toward the door to his room.

 “Aramis!”

 They stopped in their tracks and turned back to the window abruptly, frozen in place by the loud, almost sing-song voice coming from the square below.

 “Aramis! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

 The sounds of chairs scrapping harshly against wood and loud footsteps filled the room as everyone scrambled to their closest window.

 “Actually, I know where you are Aramis!” called the voice again, it’s deep Scottish accent carrying all the way up to the second floor of the house.  “Come out now and no one gets hurt!”  

 Athos and d’Artagnan leaned over the counter of the front window and peered down into the square below as Treville and Porthos did the same at the other dormer.

 The square was now very crowded, but not with merchants and shoppers, but rather, with countless young, scared women all adorned in white dresses too flimsy to be worn in such weather.  Surrounding the square were several armed men, threatening and chasing away anyone that did not need to be there.  It was chaos, and in the middle of the spectacle was Antoine Levesque, holding a mere child, no more than fourteen, to his chest with a pistol aimed at her head.

 He had created a human shield of young women.  Over a dozen, frightened girls forced into position by Levesque’s men surrounding them, and in the middle was the madman himself.  He was looking up at the window of the Bonacieux home, sneering as he adjusted the young girl in front of him to keep himself covered. “Aramis!” he called again, this time his voice harsh and brooking no jest.  “Get down here!  And bring your lowlife friend, Porthos, with you!”

 Porthos was racing down the stairs toward the front door before anyone could stop him. The rest followed after him, but before d’Artagnan stepped outside, he called back up the stairs to Constance. “Stay with Aramis!” he ordered. “Go!”

 Constance didn’t hesitate. She gathered her skirts and ran into d’Artagnan’s old room, her heart racing, her limbs shaking.  She found Aramis sitting on the edge of the bed, straining to rise to his feet, so she rushed forward and sat beside him, holding him to the bed with her arms wrapped around his torso.

 “Let me go!” demanded Aramis, grabbing for the side table to gain leverage.

 “I can’t,” replied Constance, struggling to gain purchase on the anxious musketeer. “Please.”

 Aramis wasn’t listening. Levesque was outside, he had heard his voice clearly demanding his presence and his brothers scrambling out the door, and he could not allow them to put themselves in danger on his behalf.

 “No!” he shouted at Constance, untangling himself from her tight grasp. “I’ve changed my mind! I cannot sit by…” his voice cut off as he slipped onto the floor, his knees taking the brunt of his weight and sending a shooting pain up his left thigh into his hip.  He curled forward in anguish, both his hands grabbing at his hip in a vain attempt to suppress his pain.

 Constance was beside him on the floor almost instantly, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other pressed against his forehead as he strained against it for support.

 “Let them do this,” she pleaded, tears accumulating in the corners of her eyes. She feared for Aramis, she even feared for her own safety, but most of all, she feared for the safety of her lover down in the square confronting the lunatic Levesque.  All the emotions that she had kept pent up over that last few days rushed forward and came pouring out of her by way of tears and deep sobs.

 Moments later, and with no recollection of the musketeer’s movements, Constance realized her situation with Aramis had changed drastically.  She was no longer comforting him, but rather, he had his arms wrapped around her shoulders with his forehead pressed up against the side of hers.

 “I won’t let anything happen to him,” he said with quiet resolution.

 Constance drew in a breath to stem her unyielding tears, not able to look up from the floor she was staring at.  “What could you possibly do? You can’t even stand.”

 Aramis held her tighter before speaking.  “Whatever I can,” he replied, laying a gentle, reassuring kiss on her temple.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 The three musketeers, and their former Captain, stormed out the front door and came to a skidding halt before Levesque and his human shield.  Instinctively, they spread themselves in a line, moving slowly, cautiously, with their unarmed hands bared in supplication. No one wanted to trigger a massacre by making any sudden movements or threatening attacks.  They knew the consequences could be disastrous.

 But there was only so much patience and restraint that Porthos possessed.  “You evil son-of-a-bitch!” he snarled.

 Treville laid a hand on his arm to still his anger and the large man held himself in check.

 “Where’s Aramis?” shouted Levesque, moving around the young, sobbing girl in his arms to keep himself covered.

 Treville moved slowly as he reached for the pistol strapped to his belt, never taking his eyes off the madman.  He needed to keep him talking long enough for his musketeers to find better positions, possibly even a hole in his shield. 

 He raised his pistol slowly in an attempt to find his aim, hoping the new threat would distract Levesque from shooting one of the girls.  “What makes you think he’s here?” he asked.

 “Do you take me for a fool?” Levesque spat back

 “Do you really need me to answer that?” replied Porthos, a grin just shy of evil spreading across his face as he crouched into his fighting stance.

 “Let’s not antagonize him any more,” Athos stated dryly.

 Levesque hadn’t heard the remark issued by the Comte, for he was still bristling at the rebuke from Porthos.  “Shut up!” he screamed back at him.  “I’ll deal with you later! First Aramis dies, and then I get to you!”

 “The only person who is going to die here is you,” replied Treville, adjusting his stance once again to find somewhere to aim his pistol.

 Athos didn’t want to do anything that could set off Levesque, but standing there completely unarmed was beyond the Comte’s comprehension, so he carefully unsheathed his sword and held it at half-mast.  Then he turned to his Captain and whispered to him from the side of his mouth. “Do you have him?”

 Treville dared not answer since Levesque was staring right at him.  Instead, he threw Athos a quick, regrettable glance that, hopefully, went unnoticed by Levesque.

 Not discouraged, Athos asked the same question to d’Artagnan standing to his right, now also with his pistol drawn.

 D’Artagnan shook his head as he took a small step away from his mentor, trying to procure a better vantage point.   “Too many girls around him,” he whispered back.  “I’m afraid of hitting one of them.”

 “Don’t take the chance,” replied Athos, his eyes never leaving the madman amidst the shield of young women.  “At least, not yet.”

 “My life was ruined because of all of you,” sneered Levesque.  “If I die, I won’t be missin’ much!  But I don’t think it will come to that…”

 “It’s the only definite thing that’s going to happen,” chided d’Artagnan. 

 Levesque took a few steps back, ignoring the retort and dragging his unwilling shield with him. He hadn’t expected the musketeers to stand their ground for this long, and he was itching to get his hands on Aramis. “Don’t play games!” he shouted back at them. Then he turned his head to indicate the men outside his shield, each poised to shoot or rush forward with their swords at high.  “You have no leverage here. And I know Aramis is in that house, so just let him come out and play and we can end this without blood shed.” He paused to smile and push his pistol deeper into the girl in his arms.  “Except maybe his.”

 “You kill him, we kill you.  Simple as that,” stated Athos.

 “My men would have you all put down before you had the chance to take a breath,” sneered Levesque. “Now let’s get on with this!  For every minute Aramis doesn’t show his face, I kill one of these girls!”

 “Then I kill you,” rumbled Porthos.

 “Perhaps, but by then most of these whores will be dead and Aramis will be left knowing he let all these precious beauties die.”

 “He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

 Athos glared at d’Artagnan, who shrugged sheepishly in retort.

 “And by the way, the clock already started.  Your first minute is up.”  With reflexes faster than any of the musketeers anticipated, Levesque spun his pistol to the side and shot one of the girls on his right flank.  He dropped the pistol immediately and retrieved another strapped to his belt as the girl fell bonelessly to the ground in a heap of white and red.

 The four musketeers flinched, taken completely by surprise at the man’s viciousness. They knew him capable of murder, but this was downright despicable, beyond words, beyond any callousness they had ever witnessed. But they held fast, even tightening their grips on their weapons with even more vigor than before. This was no time for a weak constitution. They had to hold the line.

 “You bastard,” breathed d’Artagnan with a heavy shake of his head, his voice wavering between grief and a quiet, surprised laugh.

 “Hold yourself,” ordered Treville, from down the line.

 “That’s one,” declared Levesque. 

 “Eventually your shield will disappear,” Athos pointed out, trying not to imagine the picture he had just painted.  “You will be left vulnerable and at our mercy.  And we will kill you, have no doubt about that.”

 Levesque laughed haughtily.  “A price I’m willing to pay to know Aramis is suffering!” he snarled back.  “I may end up dead, but he’ll be the one living on with the knowledge he allowed so many young, innocent women to die in his name!”  

 From the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan noticed some of Levesque’s men flinch. He surmised they’d had no idea about this part of the plan, because as far as he could tell, it left them without an escape- except perhaps death or capture.

 Guardedly, d’Artagnan shuffled back closer to Athos and nudged him gently, bringing to his attention some of Levesque’s men slowly backing away.

 Athos nodded.

 “Your next minute starts now!” continued Levesque.

 “Is Aramis’ suffering really worth your own life?” asked d’Artagnan, trying to give Levesque’s men a chance to leave discreetly.

 “Yes!” answered Levesque, his face now red with anger as he pushed his pistol even deeper into the side of his hostage.

 “We won’t give you Aramis,” stated Athos, his unwavering gaze passionate and threatening. “You might as well let these women go.”

 “Ten seconds and the next one dies!”

 “Lets think about this,” urged Treville, raising a hand once again in supplication. He had no intentions of negotiating with Levesque.  He was merely still trying to buy time.  Why? He still wasn’t sure. The man had a nearly impregnable shield surrounding him, and unless more of the poor women were executed, no one could get a clear shot.  And allowing any more innocent, young women to die was not an option in his book.

 “Nine..! Eight..!”

 “Take me!” shouted Porthos, rising to his full height as he pounded his chest. “Take me instead! I brought Aramis to you! It’s all my fault!”

 “Not good enough!” shouted back Levesque.  “I want Aramis more!”

 Porthos seethed, his shoulders heaving with every determined and angry breath he took. His muscles twitched as he pounced on his toes, wanting to rush forward and rip Levesque apart with is bare hands. But he knew he couldn’t. If he had learned anything while being a Musketeer, it was that saving the innocent was tantamount to your own welfare.  And charging forth now was sure to create deadly chaos.

 “Six..! Five..!  Come on with it!  Aramis! Get down here before more die in your name!” shouted Levesque, his hand trembling as his eyes searched out his next victim.

 The musketeers held fast.  Each of them yearned to make a move, but none of them had a clear shot. They were at an impasse, stuck with an impossible decision with no outcome even remotely favorable.

 The seconds ticked by excruciatingly slowly, then suddenly their decision was made for them as another loud bang echoed in the square. 

  **To be Continued…**


	10. Chapter 10

**A marksman extends the reach of it’s army.  They represent the highest refinement of the infantry soldier’s art.  But they take the random business of killing and turn it personal and become outcasts amongst their own.**

**But yet…**

_Somewhere in the night a quiet professional is waiting._

_He does not care that he is tired._

_That his hardened body is sleep deprived._

_He is unbroken and vigilant in his task._

 

_Somewhere this warrior is the final tripwire._

_He has trained all his life in brutal conditions day and night._

_This barren and desolate world is his home._

_He lives and survives by an ancient Creed._

 

_Somewhere this weapon of war will not ask nor give quarter._

_He thrives on the mission and completing his objective._

_That he allows the taste of fear to motivate his actions._

_He is…the final option._

**~ by Mingo Kane ~**

* * *

 

****

**Save it for a Rainy Day**

**X.**

****

Levesque pitched backward to the ground, a small hole, smoking and trickling blood; dead center between his eyes.

 The four musketeers rushed forward, indifferent to the young girls and women as they scattered, screaming and crying. 

 Treville knelt beside Levesque as the others provided cover.  He didn’t have to look further to verify the man was dead. He looked up at his men and shook his head.

 No one felt remorse.

 They pulled away from the dead body, and with their pistols and swords drawn, they frantically scanned the chaotic square for the shooter.  

 “Do you think it was one of his own men?” asked d’Artagnan, his back pressed up against his mentor’s as they slowly circled.

 Athos darted his eyes about the square, trying to see past the hurried and frightened women, but he was struck with nothing but a flurry of white as there were so many of them.  He could feel his heart racing, but his sword was still and unflinching, an achievement born only from years as a trained soldier.  “Perhaps,” he replied, pressing his back closer to d’Artagnan’s as they continued to move slowly in a circle. 

 The Comte’s eyes caught those of Porthos’ who was near the well using his body as a shield to cover some of the cowering girls.  Athos noted his confusion without so much as a word, and he nodded for him to stay where he was just in case the shooter wasn’t finished.

 He then found Treville by one of the entrances to the square, trying to hurry the women out of a possible line of fire.

 “Do you see any of them?” Athos called  to d’Artagnan over his shoulder.

 Spinning quickly, pistol raised with Athos keeping pace to cover his back, d’Artagnan shook his head.  “I can’t tell who I’m seeing,” he replied, having to raise his voice over the accumulating din of the crowd. “There’re too many people here!”

 “Spread out,” ordered Athos, stepping away from the Gascon.  “Treville and Porthos are taking care of the girls. Let’s find Levesque’s men!”

 D’Artagnan accepted the order with a curt nod before charging into the throng of people scurrying about- randomly seeking cover wherever they could find it. When Athos could no longer see him, he did the same in the other direction, hoping to find at least one of the men involved.  But he surmised, based on d’Artagnan’s observation before the deadly shot took Levesque’s life, his men had already vacated the square in order to save themselves.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 “I’m going to need your help,” Aramis said, his voice reflecting his years as a disciplined soldier.

 “Me? What can I do?” breathed Constance, taken aback by the marksman’s sudden fortitude.

 Aramis strained his neck as he looked backward over the top of the bed. He could see Athos’ pistol sitting on the ledge and he grimanced.  The Comte had gone out there with nothing more than a sword and knife, but Aramis had no time for compunction, he needed to act quickly.  And he also needed something that packed a bit more substance than Athos’ pistol. 

 He turned back to Constance, his right arm still draped over her shoulder as they sat on the floor leaning against the side of the bed.

 The soldier in him was begging to be released, but he knew Constance would never abide having orders shouted at her.  He would have to play this carefully; keep her calm, focused, and not thinking about d’Artagnan outside facing off against a madman bent on sadistic revenge.  

 He winced inwardly at how problematic his situation had suddenly become. His friends were outside and their lives were at risk, and here he was, stuck on the floor, barely able to stand and with a hand that was clumsy at best.  He also felt a deep seeded compulsion to protect Constance, even though, he had to admit, she was one of the strongest people he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

 Finally, he took a deep breath, gave her shoulder a squeeze and steeled himself. “D’Artagnan taught you about weapons, did he not?” he asked in a quiet, commanding voice.  She nodded, but her face reflected a hesitant confusion.  He had to ignore it and push on.  “Do you remember if my musket was retrieved?”

 She nodded slowly.  “I believe so.”

 Aramis pointed toward the door.  “I need you to go and get it,” he said, his brows raised pleadingly.

 Constance started to rise, unsure if her legs would carry her weight.

 “Stay down,” ordered Aramis, indicating with his hands for her to remain crouched.

 Bent low, Constance made her way out of the room on shaky limbs.  She could hear people shouting outside and it worried her immensely that d’Artagnan was out there.  Drawing on her remaining courage, she swallowed her fear and continued on with a renewed vigor.  A moment later she was crawling back into the room, sliding the musket out in front of her.

 Aramis pushed himself up higher against the side of the bed and drew in several deep breaths to calm the nerves betraying his experience.  He then signaled for her to propel the musket toward him, which she did without hesitation.

 Aramis pulled his knees up, his left one painfully, and reached for the weapon, drawing it into his lap.  He took a moment to gather his strength before setting to work.  It felt comfortable and familiar in his grip, but he found he didn’t quite have the dexterity required to properly load it.  Frustrated, he threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. When he righted it again, Constance was kneeling before him, staring wide-eyed and frightened.  It was not a look he was used to seeing on her, but again, he didn’t have time to hold her hand.  Keeping occupied by helping him was going to have to be comfort enough.

 He harnessed his resolve, knowing every movement he was about to make was going to hurt. But there was a fierceness for justice born in him through experience, and he’d sworn to uphold the sanctity of it a long time ago, so pain or not, he was going to do whatever it took to end this.

 So with pride aside, he passed the musket over his knees to Constance.

 “Can you load this?” he asked, trying to convey his confidence in her through quiet determination.

 Constance nodded as she took the weapon gingerly in her hands, but her words were rushed and frantic as she spoke.  “You’re not suggesting…”

 Aramis placed a hand on her shoulder and used it for support as he painfully hefted himself onto the bed, remembering to stay low and out of sight from the view below.  “Just load it,” he said through gritted teeth, as he waited out the spasm in his hip.

 She did as instructed, having to fetch a lit candle to ignite the matchcord, and while she prepared the musket, Aramis sat on the bed bracing himself for what was to come.

 “Now what?” asked Constance, the loaded rifle held carefully in her hands.

 There was a loud bang outside in the square below and they both froze.

 Suddenly, Constance passed Aramis the musket and ran to the window at the foot of the bed.

 “Get down!” shouted Aramis, a panic rising in his chest for both her and his friends outside.

 Constance only turned and dropped below the window when she was satisfied d’Artagnan was still alive and uninjured.  She collapsed under the sill and stared up at Aramis who was sprawled low across the bed.

 Aramis offered her a hand, which she took gratefully, and let him help her back to the bed and away from the window.  He gave her a moment to regain her bearings before asking what she had seen. He knew d’Artagnan and his brothers were safe by the expression on her face, but he still wanted, needed, a layout of the scene below.

 “Levesque,” she said shakily.  “He’s got over a dozen women surrounding him…” her voice trailed off as she tried to erase the image in her mind.

 “He’s hiding behind them?” asked Aramis carefully, not wanting to spook her but yet needing information faster than she was giving it.

 Constance nodded.  “He just killed one of them,” she said, turning frightened eyes toward him.  “She’s just lying there.  Dead.”

 Aramis gave her hand a squeeze.  “You must be strong,” he said.  “Push that aside and let us finish this.”

 Swallowing thickly, Constance nodded her head.  “What do you need me to do?”

 Aramis pointed to the chair by the bed then over to the window.  “Put that over there,” he said.  “Then help me over.”

 Constance took a moment to stare at him with surprised curiosity, then she followed his orders and came back to the bed to help him stand.  He threw his right arm over her shoulder and tried not to burden her with too much of his weight as they shuffled toward the chair. When he was seated, and most of the pain had dissipated into a deep ache, Aramis motioned for her to take cover by the wardrobe.   He wanted her out of Levesque’s sight, and also unable to see the square below.

 Aramis did not wish her to witness what he was about to do.

 Carefully, with his right hand, he closed the shutter on his side of the window and then broke out several slats.  Then, cautiously and painfully slow, he pushed the window open a mere fraction- just enough to fit the muzzle of his musket.  He sighted down the smoothbore barrel and blew gently on the matchcord as he breathed steadily.   But there was a twitch in his left hand that made his aim unsteady, and it did not go unnoticed by Constance standing behind him.

 “Just take your time,” she whispered over his shoulder, then quickly added, “well, not too much time.”

 “I thought I told you to stand back,” admonished Aramis, not looking away from the target below.

 “As if,” she rebuked.

 Aramis had to smile at her tenacity, despite their tenuous predicament. He shifted in his chair and tried to settle himself once again, but the fingers on his left hand were not behaving and he was finding it hard to maintain his grip, and therefore his aim.

 “Keep it steady,” whispered Constance.  “Look down the barrel, see your target.  You can do this.”

 Aramis wanted to look back and glare at her, but he didn’t want to break his concentration. “Be quiet,” he said. “Talking about it won’t help. I need to feel it.”

 Constance kept quiet after that and Aramis drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the feeling of the heavy butt plate squared against his shoulder, the warm wood against his cheek and the smoothness of the barrel under his fingers.  He started to feel an old familiar calmness take over his body, like warm honey seeping through his veins.  It innately morphed his senses, numbing the ones he didn’t need, yet igniting the ones he did.  But when the marksman opened his eyes to take sight, he immediately found himself squinting and having to look away.  When he looked back, he noticed a sharp, blinding glare coming off one of the upstairs windows from across the square.

 Aramis followed it back to its source and saw shafts of golden light breaking through one of the clouds above.  In a sky made dark and heavy by oppressive clouds, a few meager rays of sunlight were able to break through and represent their true nature.  It made him smile to see such beauty and power triumph over gloom, but even more so, he felt invigorated.  All the fears and hesitations he was subconsciously harboring melded into an opaque ball in his throat that he swallowed away. 

 He resettled his musket and sighted once again down the barrel, a renewed vigor and desire for vengeance and justice flowing through him.

 He took in a steady breath, relaxed, and let his breath escape naturally until it stopped on it’s own.  Sensitive, and instinctively perceptive to the respiratory pause at the end of his breath, Aramis then squeezed the trigger.

 True to his notoriety, the shot landed dead center between the eyes of Antoine Levesque.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 With most of the women and girls accounted for, and the remainder of Levesque’s men bound, gagged and gathered around the well, Athos sauntered over with d’Artagnan by his side.  “Is this all of them?” he asked, looking at Porthos who was guarding them with an intense loathing.

 “This is all that didn’t get away,” grumbled Porthos, kicking one of the men purely for antagonizing fun.  “You know,” he lamented, looking back at Athos.  “I’ve just spent the last few minutes wanting to kill these men, when if fact, I should have actually been killing ‘em.”

 D’Artagnan put a hand on his shoulder, sharing in his friend’s sentiment.   “Did any of them confess to shooting Levesque yet?”

 Porthos let out a huff.  “They all did,” he replied. “I figure, they think we’ll go easy on ‘em if we think they killed him.”

 “Not likely,” replied Athos, scanning his eyes over the haggard men leaning against the well.  He walked around them, taking in each disgusting and disheveled man as he passed by, and came to the conclusion that none of them were capable of such an accurate shot. “None of them did it,” he said, looking back at Porthos and d’Artagnan.  “I doubt any of them could hit a barn from ten feet away.”  He paused to let loose a small smile. “Even if they were sober.”

 “Then who did?” asked d’Artagnan.

 The three of them looked around the square.  Treville had taken charge of the girls and was talking with some of the local residents.  They had offered shelter to the girls till their parents could be notified, so Treville was busy sorting everyone out.  But other than that, there were not a lot of people about. 

 “He probably got away during the turmoil,” sighed Athos, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back to gaze at his brothers from under the brim of his hat.

 “Not sure if I’m happy or sad ‘bout that,” replied Porthos. 

 Athos nodded, unable to find argument with his brother’s lament.

 “You don’t think…”

 Athos and Porthos turned as one toward d’Artagnan.

 “You don’t think… maybe…” the Gascon let his words trail off once again as he slowly turned to look up at the second floor window of the Bonacieux home.

 “Naw,” dismissed Porthos.

 “Aramis was in no shape, or state of mind, to do anything of the sorts,” replied Athos.

 “But who else could make that shot?” d’Artagnan voiced aloud. 

 The question briefly plagued all their minds, and then all at once, the three of them were rushing toward the front door of the Bonacieux home.

  ** _~Musketeers~_**

 Constance flinched at the sound of the musket discharging.

 After a moment, wherein Aramis quickly crossed himself- not for the purposes of Levesque but rather, to absolve himself, he relaxed his posture and turned his head only half way back over his shoulder.  “You shouldn’t have watched that,” he said.  “Are you okay?”

 “I’m fine,” replied Constance, her voice emotionless and her gaze fixated on the near distance. “I’ve seen men killed before. Even killed one myself, remember?”

 Aramis took a moment to breathe deeply, and then turned all the way back to look at Constance.  “This was different,” he explained gently.  “It wasn’t in the heat of battle.  It was a precision kill. Some would call it murder.”

 Constance shook herself from her trance and met his worried gaze. “He deserved what he got,” she stated emphatically.

 A small, almost regretful smile, turned up the corners of Aramis’ mouth. “I agree,” he said. Then he lowered his musket to the floor with the butt plate balanced on the ground.  He rested the barrel against the window ledge and reached a hand toward her.  “If you don’t mind?” he asked, swallowing thickly as he was forced to close his eyes. “I’d like to return to the bed. The force of the musket has unfortunately left me rather…” he paused, searching for the right word that wouldn’t cause too much alarm in Constance.  “Dizzy,” he finally chose, opening his eyes to find her already taking his hand.

 They moved slowly back to the bed, leaving the smoking musket at the window. Once seated, Aramis nodded his gratitude and pushed himself back further.  He breathed through the pain, but had to admit, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had anticipated.

 Constance watched him get comfortable, but he seemed different to her all of a sudden. It wasn’t because he was acting more like himself, but because she felt like she was seeing his true self for the first time. 

 Aramis had just become a completely different person to her.  It amazed her that she hadn’t noticed this before, how his eyes conveyed an intensity reserved only for hardened soldiers, how his relaxed posture exuded a preternatural strength that betrayed his current, weakened condition.  He seemed younger all of a sudden, but yet hardened beyond his years. 

 Constance felt like she was truly seeing this man for the first time since they had met, and every last ounce of annoyance she still felt concerning him and the Queen vanished from both her conscious and subconscious. 

 Aramis cleared his throat, his expression conveying the fact that he knew she was staring.

 “Do you need anything?” she asked hastily, more than a little embarrassed at being caught.

 “Perhaps a little wine,” he replied, noting the slight tremble in his left hand.

 She raised a challenging eyebrow, frowning as she recalled his behavior the last time he drank.

 “I promise to not damage your walls this time,” he said, quirking up the corner of his mouth with a cheeky wink.   When it seemed she wasn’t going to believe him, he dropped the smile from his face and placated her with a defeated sigh.  “Perhaps just a little?” he pleaded, holding his forefinger and thumb up to indicate a mere inch.

 “All right,” she conceded.  “But you’re having some tea afterward.  With honey…” she turned to leave the room and spoke the last of her words over her shoulder. “With some of the herbs the doctor left.”

 Aramis had to concede that did sound almost more enticing than the wine. His throat did still hurt, and he was almost about to change his mind when Constance returned to the room. She was holding a small glass with mere drops of red liquid sloshing about and suddenly Aramis realized it was _definitely_ wine he wanted. He took the drink eagerly and downed it quickly.  It didn’t do much for the pain in his throat, or the ache in his hip, but it did help stem the twitching of his left hand. 

 He returned the glass and then stared down at his bandaged fingers. He flexed them, which brought a near dispirited smile to his face.  It hurt, but it was a good pain.   Something he felt he could work with, or even better, overcome.

 He looked back up at Constance feeling that maybe not all was lost anymore.

 Aramis could feel his psyche returning to its natural state of easy confidence, his muscles innately relaxing and his spirits rising, and he realized he was starting to feel like his old self again. 

 A sign from the heavens, his brothers foreboding deaths; he wasn’t sure which one, but he was certain it was one of those things that had inspired him to return to himself.  He decided it didn’t really matter what had caused his sudden turn around, only that he had found himself again and the spark within him to fight- fight for justice, fight for survival, was back.

 “I’m sorry.”  

 The strange and sudden words from Constance made him look up.  “For what?”

 “I spoke with Athos like you said.”

 Aramis reached out a hand to which she took with an apologetic smile on her face. “I was not looking for an apology when I suggested you speak with him.”

 “I know,” replied Constance.  “But you’re getting one anyway.”

 Aramis smiled, his heartfelt joy reaching his eyes and causing the creases around them to crinkle.  “Thank you.” Then suddenly, as he heard his brothers scrambling up the stairs of the house, he dropped her hand and gave her a wink.  “Why don’t we save that conversation for later?”

 Constance nodded with a smile and stepped back out of the way as his brothers careened around the corner and into the room

 All three of them gathered around him, making no room for Constance who gladly got out of their way and went into the other room.

 “That was you, wasn’t it?” asked Porthos, a proud and broad smile adorning his face.

 Aramis frowned.  “Porthos, please. Who else could make that shot?”

 “No one but you, Aramis,” replied Athos, a smile also appearing on his lips. “So are we to assume,” he paused to look around at his brothers before resting his eyes back on Aramis and lowering his questioning voice,  “that everything is as it should be?”

 Aramis squirmed slightly, flexing his left hand carefully as he stared upon it. “I had some trouble, I won’t lie,” he began, some of the eagerness in his voice disappearing. “But perhaps it is more promising than I had once thought.”  He shared a quiet acknowledgement with Athos before addressing the rest of his friends in the room.  “I promise to be extra vigilant in my exercises and not get too down on myself in the meantime.”

 D’Artagnan clapped a hand on his shoulder.  “That’s good to hear.  We missed your lively wit these past few days.  It wasn’t just the weather that was dreary.”

 Aramis had to laugh at himself for his behavior over the past few days; surprised he was even capable of such despair.

 “What say you join us in the other room?” urged Porthos, waving his friend toward the door. “About time you saw something beyond these four walls.”

 Aramis held up a hand and shook his head.  “Not yet,” he said wearily.  “Too much excitement for one day.  Besides, I’ve seen what’s out there, remember?  And it seems to be quite a mess.  I think your duties still beckon.”

 Porthos bobbed his head back and forth in contemplation, seriously thinking about shirking his responsibilities in lieu of staying with his friend.

 “Go,” ordered Aramis, with a wave of his hand.  “All of you.  I will be here when you come back.”

 Porthos rushed toward him with his arms outstretched.  He embraced his friend, pulling back only slightly when Aramis cautiously reminded him that he still hurt.  But Porthos could not help himself.  He held his friend a moment longer before releasing him and stepping back. 

 “I, ah… I …” Porthos’ words were stuttered as he began to walk backward toward the door, tears evident in the corners of his eyes.  “I, ah… yeah,” he continued, hitching a thumb over his shoulder as he sniffed back a few errant tears.  But he held strong and did not allow anymore to fall. 

 Then he smiled at Aramis once more, making sure he had his friend’s undivided attention. “It’s good to have you back,” he said, then turned quickly and left so he could hide the emotions toying with his masculine pride.

 Shortly after, d’Artagnan also bid good-bye with the promise to bring out the good wine later that evening.

 Athos remained behind, his frame filling the doorway as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the marksman in wonder.    “What happened?” he asked, nodding to the musket resting by the window.

 Aramis smiled sagaciously at the Comte.  “You mean besides the obvious?” he asked with an air of amusement.

 Athos rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes. We were in trouble and needed saving. Yes, besides that. Something changed and I have a feeling it wasn’t just our precarious situation.”

 Aramis lay back on the bed.  Exhaustion was starting to creep back through him, so he closed his eyes and relaxed into the mattress.  “I still have a long way to go before I’m fully recuperated,” he said, quietly. “And I can’t promise there won’t be trying times ahead, even some frustration and lamenting,” he paused and opened his eyes, glancing out the window at the foot of the bed. He saw rays of light breaking through the clouds, striated and glorious as if shining down from the heavens and he smiled. “But today it is just too nice outside to be hindered by such things.” He turned to look at his friend in the doorway. “I think I’ll save all that for a rainy day.”

 Again, Athos rolled his eyes.  “Fine,” he said dryly. “Keep your reasons to yourself. Far be from me to invade on someone’s privacy, but please refrain from the poetic drivel.  I’m the one who’s good with words, remember? Not you.”  After that, he shared a knowing smile with the marksman and took his leave.

 Aramis let his eyes close once again.  Without awareness, he began flexing his left hand as he reflected over the past few days. Back when this had all begun, he had promised Porthos he would never let him go.  Now that his mind was clearer and his focus unquestioning once again, Aramis realized that he had actually almost done just that. Let him go.  But not just Porthos, everyone, including himself.

  _“I cannot see a future without you fighting along-side me, or your brothers.  Nor do I wish to.”_

 Athos words bounced about in his head, dissipating his melancholy and awakening his spirit. They wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, echoing in his head as they brought a smile to his face. “Perhaps you aren’t so bad with words after all,” he said aloud.

 When the body has reached it’s limit, and there seems to be no hope left to speak of, sometimes it’s the spirit that prevails.  And as Aramis turned over to watch the awakening day from the window of his room, he felt like maybe, just maybe, his spirit- so intertwined with those of his brothers, had been the reason he had come back to himself. The thought of them not there, not in his future, had been too much to bear, and so, just as the rebellious rays of light had broken through their prison walls of oppressive clouds, so had Aramis’ spirit broken through his despair. 

 And as he continued to watch the daybreak outside the window, he decided that indeed it was much too nice a day to think about such things.  He tucked away all his discomfort and let his thoughts drift away as he succumbed to sleep.

 He would save the gloom for a rainy day, but for now, he was at peace.

  ** _~Finis~_**


End file.
